


blood in, bleed out

by AnotherGallavichLove, Whatsastory



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 20th Century, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Character Death is not Ian or Mickey, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Historical References, Jealousy, M/M, Mobster!Mickey, Organized Crime, Pining, Slow Burn, Ukrainian!Mickey, Violence, bilingual!mickey, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 199,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24559567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherGallavichLove/pseuds/AnotherGallavichLove, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: The year is 1954. Tony Bennett is on the radio, Marilyn Monroe is on the silver screen, and as Ian Gallagher is about to find out - the Ukrainian mafia is in full swing.['Blood in, blood out':a saying within the mafia to indicate the reality of what you must sacrifice in order to become a made man, as well as the extent of your suffering, should you ever attempt to walk away.][Click here to watch the trailer.]
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 331
Kudos: 348





	1. one

There was no mistaking the sound as anything else. Despite the fact that it was not very loud - quiet enough, in fact, that an hour earlier, Ian wouldn’t have noticed anything, thanks to the hot rodders outside, revving their engines. But now they were gone, the daylight was slowly fading outside of the large windows. The large, blue sign outside had been turned off for the day, its red lettering no longer pulling people towards their twenty eight ice cream flavors. 

Ian had even locked the door. Which was why the sound of the thud startled him, made him pause with a piece of the milkshake machine underneath the weak stream of water; the last thing that needed cleaning before he could leave. He spun the knob to make the trickle stop, listening more intently. There were no more thuds, but he did hear a grunt - and then nothing. 

The only person that should be within the building was Ian’s boss - he should be in his office, but he was always alone. Slowly, Ian made his way out of the kitchen, past the ‘staff only’ sign, and down the hallway towards the office. He wasn’t sure what he thought he would see - there was a real possibility that Mr. Hyde wasn’t in trouble, and had just decided to invite a woman over, but Ian had heard grunts of gratification before - a part of him knew - this was not that. 

Even so, as he turned the corner, nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him. 

He was confused at first, seeing his boss laying on the ground, a glistening puddle of crimson slowly growing around the base of his skull. Some part of him, distant - in the back of his mind - knew that he was in shock. He’d taken basic first aid the year before when he was a lifeguard at the city pool. He knew he was in shock, but still he couldn’t shake the dog growing around the rational part of his brain. 

So at first when he saw Mr. Hyde, he thought he’d simply tripped and fallen. It wasn’t unheard of. It was something that made sense. Though, of course, he couldn’t rationalize the gaping wound just above the back of his neck; people don’t tend to fall backward and land neck first. 

The fog cleared just enough to create a tunnel vision that honed into the man at his feet, and Ian dropped to his knees to render what first aid he could. He ripped his plain white t-shirt above his head and off of his shoulders to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. If he could just, if he could just stop it - the bleeding - then the man would be okay, surely. 

He’d only just started, the slow creep of the blood staining his t-shirt, when his tunnel vision faded out and the pounding of his heart and his ears subsided just enough to hear a voice from above him. 

“Fuck you doing? Why are you here?” 

Ian’s head whipped up to catch sight of someone he vaguely recognized from long ago; his years in high school nearly half a decade away from him now. Though, the slicked back stark black hair and blazing blue eyes weren’t something that he had exactly forgotten. Especially when the man had made such a name for himself, even at a young age. 

“Mickey? Mickey, I think he fell. I- I need to call an ambulance. Can you, I don’t know, can you hold this? He, if he keeps bleeding, he’s going to, he’s going to die,” Ian rattled off nonsensically. 

Mickey stared down at him cooly, thumb tracing over his lower lip in a way that was too calm for Ian’s taste. Couldn’t he see that a man was dying? Ian’s thoughts were too far gone to even question why he was there at this hour. 

“Ain’t that a bite?” Mickey asked, sounding more like a taunt than anything else. “Gonna ask you again, firecrotch, why the fuck are you here right now?”

Ian’s lips parted slightly, something like a hiccup escaping his throat in lack of words available. There was a man on the floor, dying - dead, realistically, but Ian was not nearly ready enough to admit that just yet - and Mickey thought this was the time to… what? Be calm? Test out new nicknames? Ian’s hand tightened around the bloody shirt as he started shaking his head from side to side, small movements, as if his body was about to stop functioning in tandem with his brain. 

“I work here,” Ian finally got out, his voice breaking. “There’s a phone in the kitchen, just go!” Mickey did no such thing; instead Ian watched as he sighed, and crossed his arms, the leather of his jacket making the slightest creaking noise with the movement. 

There it was. As Ian followed Mickey’s body down, past the jacket, down to pale, blue jeans. Jeans that by the ankle quickly faded into purple - a purple so purple it was almost red. 

“You…” Ian breathed… his hand finally relaxing around the shirt as he swallowed, moving back against the cabinets. “Why?” 

“Why what?” Mickey leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his eyebrows raising slightly in question as he waited for Ian to clarify. 

“Why did you do this?” Ian managed. 

“Who said I did?” Mickey questioned. “Who says you didn’t? You got a lot more of the guys’ blood on you than I do.” With his heart in his throat, Ian realized that it was true. There were two of them in here - one with a little bit of blood on his cuffed jeans, and one covered in it. 

“I have a job,” Ian said, voice weaker than he would like it to. “Mr. Hyde took a chance on me. I haven’t stepped outside the law in a decade. You - “

“I what?” Mickey interrupted immediately - a clear warning for Ian to watch himself. Especially as he took a step into the room, Ian standing up, fighting the urge to back away. Distantly, he wondered whether he could beat feet without Mickey catching him, but the brighter part of him knew that it wasn’t worth the try. The man was shorter than Ian, but he had more body mass, and likely a weapon. 

“I don’t know,” Ian admitted. Mickey seemed somewhat pleased with that response, and Ian gave himself a pat on the back for managing to stay alive this long into the confrontation. “You gonna let me go?” He asked, then, wanting nothing more than to exit this building and run back home. Mickey chuckled - perhaps he even laughed. 

“Yeah, ‘cause having you running around the streets after this little run-in’s gonna do me a whole lot of good, huh?” 

Ian floundered. He thought of his family back home, the pennies they scraped together each month for the bills. Would they even be able to survive without his measly little earnings? Would Fiona have to let up her hold on the kids? Would Lip still be able to go to college? No way Carl could stay on the right side of the law if he had to start earning some serious bread, too. 

“I- I’ll keep my lips zipped. I swear, I swear,” Ian said and held his hands up in a show of placating, hoping beyond hope that his life wasn’t about to get cut short by about fifty years. 

“Mm, see the thing about that is,” Mickey mused, “You go flapping your jaws- I end up in the cooler. You know what happens if I’m a jail bird, firecrotch?” 

Ian shook his head. He has some semblance of an idea, sure, something bad would happen to him or his family. But he thought maybe if he kept Mickey talking, he’d get to walk out of there alive. 

“See, I go to jail,” Mickey explained, “That means my family don’t earn what they’re ‘sposed to. That’s taking food right outta their mouths. I don’t think they’d like that much, do you?” 

Ian shook his head again, faster and more assured. No, taking away money for the family was something he fully understood. 

“I swear it, Mick. I won’t jab. I-I gotta family too, y’know. People who depend on me. I don’t come home, they don’t eat either. I ain’t stupid enough to say anything.” 

Mickey grinned, something cunning and dark and Ian’s stomach sank at the sight. There wasn’t anyway that he was going out there on two feet. This guy- who was in his brother’s class in school, who he was sure he played baseball with- was going to end him right there in his boss’ office that was already coated in blood. 

“Little problem there. You called me ‘Mick’? So that must mean you know a lot about who I am, huh? You sure seem to think you do, anyway.” 

“No, I-” But Ian was too late to take it back. Couldn’t plead ignorance after he’d already shown his cards. So he switched tactics. “My sister, Fiona, she takes care of the five of us. Six, including herself. Lip, my brother, he’s in school. Gonna be big business. And then Debbie-”

“Sure do like flapping your gums, don’t you? Jesus. Don’t know why you’re getting so cranked up,” he teased, and Ian wanted to cry. “I know who you are, Gallagher.” The way the words were spoken seemed to indicate that they should calm Ian down, but they did the opposite. Mickey knew his name, who he was, who his family was. Wait. 

“That’s good, right?” Ian tried. “I can’t open my mouth ‘cause you know who I am, right?” He pretended he knew how criminals thought, but despite growing up in Canaryville, the worst he had been around was petty theft, drugs, and the occasional assault. “You’ll find me… so…” Ian looked towards the door behind Mickey, silently pleading to whoever may be listening that he would get to walk out. Soon. 

Mickey seemed to think it over, his head ever so slightly tilted to the side, his arms still tightly crossed over his chest. Ian looked him in the eye now, not wanting to appear weak, or afraid, but the reality was closer than he would like to admit. 

“There’s gonna be more evidence if you kill me. They’re gonna find you,” Ian continued, swallowing the words he really wanted to say. ‘ _ Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die. _ ’ 

“That right?” Mickey laughed - grin with teeth bared and all - but it wasn’t one of harmless amusement. “How so?” He asked, bringing his thumb to his temple. “They gonna find a hair of mine and magically match it to me? That ain’t how the real world works, fish.” 

“Two bodies, the wounds - they could match it to your weapon, your kn - “

“What bodies?” Mickey questioned smoothly, voice level, an eyebrow raising slightly once again. At the words, Ian swallowed, desperately searching for something else that could change his mind. Clearly, he didn’t consider knowing who Ian’s family was enough material to blackmail him with. Ian parted his lips, but only a slight sigh escaped, zero words on his tongue. 

Then. Something changed. The look on Mickey’s face - Ian thought he could actually see the very moment in which it clicked in his brain. 

“I’ll let you live,” Mickey gave him a nod, and Ian thought he might tumble to the ground with relief. “Long as you get rid of it.” 

“Get rid of what?” Ian’s mouth worked faster than his brain, the true meaning of Mickey’s words not falling into place until the question had left his mouth. “N-no, no, I…” 

“Your choice,” Mickey assured him, as if there was one. Ian turned to look at the body, then he looked outside the window; at the streetlights flickering to life across the empty parking lot. The single chevy parked close to the building. Ian didn’t have to guess why it was so close. Why it was backed up with the trunk towards the door. Convenience. 

Ian could say no. Ian could die tonight. Ian could leave his siblings without his paycheck, Lip without a decent brother - at least until Liam grew up, because Carl was turning out to be a dipstick.

Or. 

“Fine. What do I do?” 

Mickey smiled, one that could almost pass as genuine, as he uncrossed his legs and leveraged himself away from the door frame. Ian stood stock still and swallowed the bile that threatened to force its way up from his stomach- the bitter taste coating the back of his tongue. He knew that it was one of those moments, one of those life altering things that you’re supposed to keep locked up right in your memory, because one day you’ll be on your deathbed and you’ll think back to it. He hated it. Hated that this would be a defining moment in his life, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it. 

“Got a nice little tarp out in the chariot. You’re gonna go grab it and wrap this big daddy up. Got me?” 

Ian nodded and grabbed the silver dangle of keys Mickey handed over. As he walked out to Mickey’s car, he thought of just taking off. Thought of driving off into the sunset and never coming back. He could probably get a good jump on him if he punched it. 

But then he’d be leaving his family. His family who Mickey apparently knew. Who’s to say that they wouldn’t be given a pair of cement shoes to spend eternity at the bottom of the river? He couldn’t leave. He didn’t have a choice. 

He didn’t think while he did it. He cleared his brain of any and all things related to his situation, and instead played a Buddy Holly tune on repeat in his head, trying his best to drown out the sound of crinkling plastic and lifeless splats of deadweight sounds being rolled up. 

Mickey helped him carry... it... to his car, and closed the trunk with a heavy thud. He grinned again when Ian let out a sigh of relief, happy to be away from the sight of his former boss. 

“Wanna smoke?” Mickey asked as he took a pack of Lucky Strikes from the back pocket of his jeans and extended it over to Ian. Ian nodded gratefully and let the cigarette be lit for him before inhaling deeply. 

“Now you need to go back in there and clean up the leftovers,” Mickey informed him as he blew out a stringy cloud of smoke. 

“I- what? How’m I supposed to do that?” 

Mickey shrugged and arched his perfectly expressive eyebrows. He gave Ian a halfhearted pat on the shoulder before turning and opening his car door. 

“I’ll be seeing you around, Ian Gallagher who lives on North Wallace,” he sneered and shut himself inside before burning rubber out of there. 


	2. two

The thing about cleaning up a crime scene is that it never seems to end. None of it ends. Ian cleaned up one pool of blood, and found a smear on the handle of a drawer. Not to mention the fact that the pool of blood didn’t disappear to begin with, it just moved to the rag he mopped it up with, so now he had a floor smeared with blood, a rag soaked with as much blood as his clothes, and surely a group of siblings back home that were wondering where he had run off to. 

Through all of the harmful chemicals he used he could still smell the specific scent of the blood. The scent of pennies, pain, and death. 

There was no way of knowing how long he was there, kneeling in blood both literally and metaphorically. Even as he stood there, in the doorway, the pale light of the earliest morning hours falling across the clean office, he could see nothing clean about it. Because he knew. That corner of the window? That was where he had just barely noticed the mist of blood. That drawer? Soaked in blood, a mere half an hour ago. That stack of papers? It was missing about four more pages because they were soaked, too. Now they were crumpled in his backpack and he didn’t know what to do with them. The rag they used to clean the kids’ table with? Soaking in a dish tub of chemicals, hopefully white again by the time the other employees showed up. 

Sighing, he cracked his knuckles and made his way to the kitchen to pick the phone up, quickly punching the number in. 

“ _Gallagher house._ ” The sound of Fiona’s voice nearly made his knees want to buckle right then and there; he wished that she was there to hold him like she used to when he was a toddler, tell him everything was going to be alright. She sounded exhausted - of course - but that also reminded him of when he was a child; when he would have a nightmare, and she would comfort him. Tell him that the monsters were nothing but shadows. The absence of light. 

“Hi, Fiona, it’s me,” he said, putting on his best tone of voice, hoping that she wouldn’t be able to tell that there was anything wrong. 

“ _Ian? I was starting to think you were dead in a ditch somewhere!_ ” The irony was not lost on him; not for a moment. 

“No,” he promised with a chuckle. “I just got held up, a lot of cleaning to do. Just called to tell you I’m coming home now, I didn’t want you to flip your lid. I’m all good.” 

“ _Okay, well thanks for calling, please call earlier next time,_ ” she said, amusement in her tone. He knew that when he was a teenager, she would have been a lot more upset, but little by little, she was having to let go of them all. The thought gave him more grief than it should have. The thought of being a child again had never seemed more appealing. 

“Okay, mother,” he teased, hoping against all else that he could fool her, just this once. 

“See you soon,” she promised, none the wiser and Ian almost crumpled in on himself with relief when he hung up the receiver. 

✦✦✦

With everything clean and shiny and smelling like bleach, Ian finally made his way to the back door, twisting the lock on the handle to close behind him. His shoulders sagged when he cast his eyes skyward, the tiny twinkling dots not terribly vibrant against the city lights, but they only confirmed the late hour. It wasn’t that Ian was afraid of walking home after dark; he was a grown, solid man, after all. But call him crazy for being a little shaken up. Anyone would be. 

He tucked his hands in his jean pockets and kept his head down low as he marched his way toward his home. He should have probably been more alert, but all he could think about what if he’d done a good enough job. If there was anything left would that be the end of his family? Would Mickey come and sink him into the ground? Every time he blinked he saw a flash of a broken skull, a bucket full of reddened water, distant, cloudy eyes. He was torn up in a bad way, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be the same again. 

“What’s buzzin, cuzzin?” He nearly jumped out of his skin. He’d only made it halfway across the parking lot when he heard it, and when he looked up, his stomach swooped down low and his bike rose up once more. 

“Yeah?” Ian asked, doing his best not to let his voice shake at the sight of Mickey, apparently already back from his errand. 

“Just checking up on you. Make sure you did what needed to be done,” he said, voice still too cool for Ian’s taste, as he puffed away on another smoke. 

“Yeah, Mick. I did it. Checked and double checked.” 

“Good. Hop in,” Mickey ordered and didn’t wait for a reply before slamming the driver side door behind him. 

Ian thought of running once more, but where would he go? So instead, he tucked tail and climbed in alongside Mickey. 

“Where are we going?” He asked tentatively, keeping his fingers latched firmly around the door handle, just in case. In case of what? He didn’t want to think about it. 

“Relax, man. Don’t have a cow,” Mickey smiled, teeth shining even in the darkness that surrounded him. 

“I’m not-” Ian nearly shouted, but remembered where he was and who he was talking to, and lowered his voice. “I’m not having a cow. I just want to know where you’re taking me. I have the right to know.” 

“You always such a square?” Mickey laughed and pulled smoothly onto the street. 

“Excuse me. I’ve had a rough night,” Ian deadpanned and kept his gaze firmly on the scenery as it whizzed by. 

“Gonna have to get over that pansy shit real fast, fish. Can’t have you tripping all over yourself every time you see a little bit of blood, now can I?” 

“I don’t know how to answer that, Mickey,” Ian told him solemnly, longing for his old life- one he’d had just hours before. He was happy, as far as he could be. Maybe he was a little lonely; being open about his preferences wasn’t and never would be a real option for him. But he had a good family, a happy home. Things could have been worse. Things could have been a lot worse. 

And that was made even more obvious when Mickey stopped the car halfway across Michigan Avenue bridge. He was so close to home that he could almost taste it. Almost smell whatever Fiona had made for dinner and undoubtedly left him an aluminum covered plate of in the oven. He could nearly hear his siblings laughter- Liam’s baby cries. But there he was, assuredly about to be thrown to his death. 

“Mickey,” he rasped, eyes wide and heart pumping at a million miles an hour. “What are we doing here?” 

“Get out,” Mickey instructed as he, himself climbed from the vehicle and made his way to the other side of the car. “Now.” 

“Don’t do this,” Ian pleaded, real tears welling up in his eyes. He would never get to say goodbye... to anyone. His last words to his sister would be those of promising to be home soon. And he couldn’t even remember the last words he’d said to any of the rest of them. 

“Ian. Get out of the car.” 

“No,” Ian nearly yelled, shaking his head and turning his body so that he could kick Mickey if he tried to grab for him; which he did. 

“You got three fucking seconds to get your ass out here,” Mickey told him sternly and held up three fingers for emphasis. 

“I don’t want to die. Please.” He let loose the tears looking in his eyes, uncaring if he looked like a Mary. God, he’d only been finishing up his shift and now? Now he was going to be thrown off the bridge, never to be seen again. 

“Two...”

He had so much left to live for. He could have been someone. He could have been someone real if only he’d called in sick. What if he’d just stayed home? He could be there now. Safe. Warm. 

“One.” 

Mickey maneuvered quickly, dragging Ian out by his kicking feet and dropping him on his ass on the pavement below him. He pulled him upright just as quickly, and drug Ian’s fighting body to the edge of the bridge. 

“Look at it, Ian. You see this river? You know how deep it is?” 

Ian nodded and sucked the snot back up through his nose, feeling the burn in his throat from panic. This time tomorrow he’d be fish food, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

“Our friend knows how deep it is, too. You know how he knows? It’s ‘cause he’s down there, right now,” Mickey said and cupped the back of Ian’s neck and pulled him in close. “You breathe one fucking word of what you know, and you’ll be down there too. Do you understand me?” He growled, low and threatening and Ian trembled in his grasp. 

“Answer me, Gallagher!”

“I-I understand, Mickey. I understand!” Ian promised, feeling as if he was having an out of body experience, yet had never been as present in his entire life. His heart was going a million miles a minute, and he didn’t have a chance to stop the tears that continued to pour out onto his cheeks. “I won’t - I won’t say anything alright? I cleaned it up, I say anything, you got just as much on me, okay? We’re good!” Ian babbled, his mouth moving lightspeeds ahead of his brain. Mickey’s face was still inches away from his own, his hand wrapped up in the fabric of Ian’s shirt, the air between them so threatening that Ian thought Mickey might murder him right here, right now, without blinking. Despite the daylight quickly taking its place, fading previous dark blue sky above into nothing. 

After what felt like a lifetime, Mickey finally let go of Ian’s shirt, throwing him back roughly enough that Ian had to throw his own hands back to support himself, the asphalt scraping the palms of his hands, just barely. Mickey stood up, and Ian couldn’t help but hold his breath as he looked up at him; he didn’t have a chance - like a lion standing above a terrified gazelle, a black widow above a fly with a broken leg, a… a professional, murderous criminal above a terrified Howard Johnson’s employee. 

“I just want to go home,” Ian whispered, unsure whether he was loud enough for Mickey to hear him, but it didn’t matter - he didn’t say the words for Mickey’s ears. He said them to whoever might be listening above - whoever he didn’t believe in, but promised to if they didn’t let him die like this. 

Mickey crossed his arms once again, and the sun inched its way up just enough, in the exact right place behind his head to blind Ian from the view of his face, the frame standing above him nothing but a threatening shadow. 

“Just this time, fish,” Mickey stated. “Just this time.” Then he was gone, burning down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are posted once a week, around thursdays/fridays for now, depending on your timezone. We're making sure to stay a handful of chapters ahead on the writing front :)


	3. three

Ian managed to make his way back to the house without another incident - no one in his family really paid him any attention, seeing as it was around six am at this point, and they were all taking their showers, making their breakfasts, checking their calendars - he was thankful. The last thing he wanted to do was to answer any questions. Maybe being in his early twenties wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It meant no one truly scolded him when he was out all night - especially considering what they all suspected of him, what kind of people he preferred to spend his nights with. 

As he made his way up the staircase, he got a peck on the cheek from Fiona, and an off-hand comment from his brother, Lip, but he managed to make his way into the bathroom without another incident. With the noise of his siblings finally muffled behind him, he leaned against the door, eyes closed, a deep sigh escaping his lips.

It didn’t take more than a beat, though, before he opened his eyes again. It didn’t bring him peace - to close his eyes, to clear his mind - because he couldn’t. Every single time that he closed his eyes, any time that he didn’t actively focus his thoughts on something else, something specific - it was there. The blood. The soaked rag. The rumble of his voice, his threats. Ian would have had a difficult enough time, had he walked in on a stranger in that situation, if he had bloodied his shirt - which was thankfully currently covered up by his jacket - with the blood of someone he didn’t know. They could have been a bad person. They could have deserved it. 

Mr. Hyde was not a bad person. Perhaps he was no angel, but at the end of the day, who truly was? Mr. Hyde had taken a chance on Ian, had believed in him when no one else would, had hired him when no one else had been willing to. In no way was he a replacement for Frank because as much of a candyass as their father might have been, he had still wanted the best for them, and he had deserved better than being taken down in Korea. Ian would never claim that Frank had been a great father, but he would never in a million years replace him, either. But Mr. Hyde had been… nice. Perhaps one of the only adults that had ever been nice to Ian, helped him out. How did Ian repay him? Christ. 

Ian let something between a sigh and a chuckle escape out through his parted lips, but there was no amusement in the sound. Only sorrow, and anger - anger towards Mickey, anger towards whoever Mickey worked for, but mostly? Anger towards himself. Was this who he was now? A weakling who just did what he was told, even if it was something as vile as disposing of his boss’ body? 

Ian did his best to shake the thoughts from his head as he stripped free from the blood-soaked clothes, but of course it didn’t do much good. Would he ever be able to think of anything else again? Enjoy anything else? Be happy? He wasn’t so sure. 

The weak stream of water that the squeaking shower head poured over his body felt nice over his sore muscles, but the feeling didn’t comfort him like he wished it would. The steam didn’t whisper its promise of ‘everything is going to be okay’. 

By the time Ian was dressed again, the house was empty, so he was able to grab his clothes and throw them into a pot of water with a mixture of chemicals from beneath the sink that hoped would take care of the blood. There was no way he would be able to bring a bag of these clothes to a laundromat. He knew that Fiona was saving up for a private washer - a lot of people had them in their houses now - but the Gallaghers weren’t exactly that kind of household yet. They were closer to the kind of household that halved their milk with water so that it would last longer. 

Thankfully, after what felt like a lifetime of scrubbing, the water became pink, and Ian felt as if the air became slightly less difficult to accept into his lungs. He poured the dirty water out, and then went back to the bathroom to hang his clean clothes over the curtain rod. 

After that, he went out into the kitchen and took a look at the clock. Eleven am. He had to be at work in thirty minutes. The absolute last thing that he wanted to do was to walk in there, but he didn’t have a choice. Not one. 

✦✦✦

He shuffled nervously up to the ice cream shop door, a shaky hand reaching out to swing it open. The day shift team lead had already opened, and Ian was thankful that he at the very least wouldn’t need to answer any questions about why the shop was still closed at lunch time. 

Stepping through the threshold was surreal- the store looking as it always had; same checkered floor, same red stools lining the counter, same jukebox playing that same music, same smiling faces of his co-workers. He could almost trick himself into believing that nothing had happened. That his whole life hadn’t changed when he went into his boss’ office and found only a corpse. A corpse and a man that now basically owned his life. 

“Morning, Ian,” Johnny, his shift leader spoke, even though it was far closer to the afternoon than it was to the morning. Ian did his best to smile and nod back, fighting back the queasy feeling in his stomach. 

“How was your night, man?” Johnny asked. “Everything go okay during your closing shift?” 

Ian was hit with a pang of fear, just the very thought of someone asking about his night hadn’t crossed his mind. He was slow to answer, foggy brain running at half the rate thanks to exhaustion and maybe a little residual shock. It was almost as if his vocal chords refused to work, paralyzed in worry of saying the wrong thing and tipping the wrong person off. 

“Ah, I know what that face means,” Johnny said seriously, and Ian momentarily envisioned himself in a watery grave as fish ate at his rotting flesh. “Must have chased a skirt home,” he concluded and Ian’s shoulders sagged. This, he could actually lie about. This, he’d been lying about for years and years on end. 

“Yeah,” he simply said, and that was good enough to stop the line of questioning. 

It wasn’t but a few hours later, and Ian had at least a small ounce of normalcy in his routine. Scoop the ice cream. Add the toppings. Scoop the ice cream. Add the milk. Blend the malt. Scoop the ice cream. Pack a cone. Scoop the ice cream. Scoop the ice cream. Scoop the ice cream. He was finally starting to breathe just a little bit, when his whole world suddenly came crashing down. 

“Ian,” I woman called for him, and when he looked up, he could feel the blood rushing from his face. “Have you seen Arnie? You closed last night, right? He didn’t come home, and I’m getting very worried.” 

“Mrs. Hyde,” Ian croaked, acid burning at the lining of his belly. “Yes, I closed last night.” He thought if he said anything more that he’d spill his guts. Let it all out for the world to hear. But. His family... he had to play it cool, even if he had no idea how to do such a thing. 

“Well did you see him before you left?” She asked. 

What was he supposed to say to that - lie? He wasn’t that great of a liar. Even when it came to his sexual preferences, he didn’t lie very often - he tended to tell vague truths that the people listening could interpret the way that they wished to. 

“Heard him,” Ian spoke, truthfully. “In his office, it sounded like.” Mrs. Hyde nodded with a slight frown on her face; Ian swallowed, giving his co-worker a polite smile as they switched places, Ian heading into the kitchen to give the blender a rinse. For a beat, he felt as if he could breathe, but then he heard the clicking of her heels behind him on the linoleum floor, and he shut his eyes, cursing silently as he turned the knob to make the water spit out of the tap. 

“What time did you leave?” In order to buy some time, Ian used his short nail to scrape at something that wasn’t there before he was forced to turn the tap off and wipe the glass down, finally turning to face the woman. 

“I’m not sure, but I was out pretty quickly - an hour and a half after I locked the door?”

The thing about lying to people who trust you is that it makes you feel even worse - because they buy it without question - no matter how lousy of a liar you may be. 

“Oh, okay,” she nodded. “Thanks.” 

“No problem, make sure to give me a ring, let me know everything’s okay!” Ian called after her as she exited the kitchen. After she disappeared behind the swinging doors, he sunk back against the counter, sighing. 

“Ian! We need the mixer!” 

“Sorry!” 

Ian hurried out of the kitchen to place the mixer back in its place, and then he continued to scoop the ice cream. Take orders. Scoop the ice cream. Pour the milk into the blender. Scoop the ice cream. It was such a natural routine for him at this point, that for a while, he actually managed not to think too hard about… it. He managed to just… do, move, be. And thankfully, he wouldn’t be closing, so he managed to get out of there right before he would have to see the streetlights flicker to life, before the fading daylight would bring him back to last night. 

In fact, as he made his way back home, he tried to convince himself that it had all been a dream - an incredibly realistic dream, but a dream nonetheless. There was, however, the issue of his scraped palms, the issue of Mr. Hyde not making it home, and there was also one more thing. And it was in his house. 

“What are you doing here?” Ian’s voice left his lips without any permission from his brain. The sight in front of him made his blood run cold - the warm lighting of his kitchen, the sight of his siblings smiling happily where they sat around the kitchen table, the scent of Fiona heating up the leftovers from her restaurant - and Mickey. In the very middle, with his hands curled around the edge of the kitchen island counter, smiling as well - seemingly, he was the reason why Ian’s siblings were smiling. What. The. Hell. 

“You didn’t tell me you were friends with Mickey,” Fiona looked up at Ian, allowing Mickey to ignore his question, at least for now. 

“Yeah, you should have, man,” Lip chimed in. “He’s not nearly as much of a ruffian as he was back in high school, keep it up, Milkovich, you might make some actual friends.” 

“Yeah…” Ian said with a smile and a laugh that couldn’t have been more fake if his entire body had been made of wax. “... that’s my bad - can I talk to him for a second?” 

“Sure,” Fiona said as if she had any dominion over Mickey, “but don’t be too long. Supper’ll be done soon. Ya staying, Mickey?” 

Mickey smiled, a real, genuine smile at her and gently shook his head. 

“I really appreciate the offer, Fi, but I’ll have to head home. But it sure was nice talking to you all,” he told them, looking kind and open- an honest man honestly appreciative of honestly good company and new friends. 

“I’m sad to hear it. But you come back anytime, okay? I’m glad you and Ian are friends. He needs more good people in his life,” she told him, and reached across the counter to give his arm a light squeeze. 

“Yeah, man,” Lip agreed. “Door’s always open.” 

Ian was flabbergasted at the sight of his siblings being so taken by him. The thing about Gallagher’s was, they didn’t like anyone. Even genuinely good people. And there they were, swooning after this murderer as if it were nothing. How they hadn’t heard of Mickey’s connections, Ian had no idea, but either way, he wasn’t about to tell them. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian shooed his family away. “Come on, friend,” he addressed Mickey and tugged his arm to lead them to the steps behind his house. 

“Why are you here?” Ian asked, feeling a lot stronger than he had all day. His voice held actual conviction, his words alight with the flame of anger, rather than fear. This man came into his home. Where his family lived. His innocent family. 

“There’s that red headed temper, huh?” Mickey grinned, pulling a Lucky Strike from his pocket and lighting it up. 

“I’m not fucking around here, Mickey. You crossed a line.” 

“I crossed a line, huh?” Mickey mocked devilishly. “I think you might be forgetting that your ass is mine for the foreseeable future. You got no right to tell me where I can and can’t be, fish. I wanna show up at your house at four in the fucking morning? You’re gonna let me in and you’re gonna thank me for my company, you got me?” 

“But-”

“No. No buts. You see how much your family likes me? That’s because I know how to make people comfortable with me. I know exactly which buttons to push, and then before you know it, I got your entire family in the trunk of my car cause they trust me. You don’t want that, now do you?” 

Ian could feel his eyes starting to well up with hot, shameful tears. He wasn’t weak, in his everyday life. He was a lot stronger than a lot of people he knew. He’d had his fair share of schoolyard brawls, and he’d lost very few of them. He could lift heavier things than anyone else he even knew. And yet. 

He nodded. 

“Good boy,” Mickey smirked and patted Ian’s cheek affectionately.

“Thought if I was quiet, you were gonna leave me be,” Ian mumbled, as Mickey leaned back against the worn facade, inhaling the smoke like he had not a care in the world. 

“Yeah, I thought about that,” Mickey said thoughtfully, the cloud of smoke dancing out through his nostrils, the wind blowing it in Ian’s direction, causing him to take a step to the side. “Then I realised I get told to do a lot of shit I don’t really wanna do,” he shrugged, placing the cigarette back in between his lips, now looking at Ian. Ian didn’t want to look back, but he had shown himself weak enough, so he forced himself to stare back into the eyes that he couldn’t quite read.

“So you’re gonna make me do them?” Ian asked, bile rising in his throat. Mickey gave him a single, upwards nod. As if saying ‘yeah, you get it, man’. Suddenly, the breeze of the night became even colder, the hairs on Ian’s bare arms standing up. He crossed his arms, swallowing, unsure of how to get out of it. 

“Sure seems like we’ll make a decent team - and as long as you do what I say, I won’t charm the panties off that older sister of yours.” The thought made Ian swallow down the urge to throw up. “We got a deal?” 

“Why do you do this?” Ian asked, before he had a chance to stop himself. He looked up at Mickey, who was blowing out another thick cloud of tobacco. “Do you get paid?” 

“Hell yeah, man. Lots.” Of course. Stupid question. But then again, Mickey did seem like he got some kind of enjoyment out of it, at least as far as Ian could see. 

“So if I do this, ‘m I gonna see any of it?” Ian wasn’t sure where his sudden spine had come from, but he blamed it on the fact that the situation couldn’t very well get much worse - unless he disobeyed Mickey, that was. 

Mickey, who tilted his head to the side, an eyebrow raising as he stomped out his cigarette on the porch without looking. 

“You’re a funny guy, huh, fish?” he gave Ian’s cheek another pat - perhaps grazing the edge of a slap - before he kept walking down the stairs, across the yard. “Be at the Howard’s parking lot tomorrow, eleven pm. You’re a minute late, and uh…” he trailed off, running a hand across the closed trunk of the car. Ian swallowed thickly, giving him a nod, but averting his gaze. 

Mickey got into the driver’s seat, and then he was off, burning down the street, leaving Ian in the cold, feeling hopeless and helpless. 

  
  



	4. four

Ian would have thought that after a visit where his family was threatened unbeknownst to them, that he wouldn’t have been able to sleep. He should have stayed awake and kept guard for anything to go bump in the night, but things just didn’t work out that way. 

Instead, as soon as his head hit the pillow at just past seven PM, he was out. Dead to the world. He barely even moved, and while you may expect for him to have dream after horrible, awful, nasty dream; he didn’t. He didn’t have any visions of pooling blood or of gaping wounds or even of clear, crisp blue eyes or cocky, terrifying smirks. There was just… nothing. 

Even despite the early hour of going to bed, he woke up late. It didn’t matter much, since he wasn’t scheduled for work that day, but it was still strange to see a deeper yellow of the sun than the usual cheery bright that he traditionally woke up to. There wasn’t any noise bustling from downstairs, and he knew he was alone, though he wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. It meant that they were all out in the world alone. Vulnerable. 

His stomach coiled, and for the first time since everything had happened, he emptied the scarce contents of his stomach into the toilet with a sputtering cough. He sat listlessly next to the toilet, cupping his forehead in his hand and breathed deeply. Mickey was getting the best of him, and he wouldn’t allow it. He was a stronger and better man than that. 

✦✦✦

With that decision in mind, that night, he was in the Howard Johnson’s parking lot at eleven pm, just like Mickey had told him to be - five minutes earlier, even. As he waited, he consistently told himself to straighten his back, to lift his chin - he wouldn’t get anywhere by being a scared little boy. If growing up in Canaryville had taught him anything, it had taught him that. He had even nipped Lip’s leather jacket - not necessarily for Mickey’s sake, but for his own. He needed to feel stronger, better. 

The car that came burning into the parking lot was not the same one that Ian had seen Mickey drive before - this one was a black Cadillac - the kind of car you never saw around these parts. The car came to a dead halt in front of Ian, the headlights an inch away from him. When he looked up, Mickey nodded to the side, gesturing for him to get inside. Ian fought the urge to roll his eyes, and opted instead for rolling his shoulders back, taking his place in the passenger seat. 

“You gonna tell me what we’re doing, or you just gonna pull my strings and make me dance like a puppet?” Ian questioned while Mickey got them back onto the road. At the biting question, a large, yet unreadable smile took its place upon Mickey’s lips. 

“You got a mouth on you now, huh? Thought you’d be having the zorros right about now, fish.” Ian didn’t dignify that with a response - zorros didn’t get you anywhere - they both knew that. Sometimes you just had to find your spine and pretend that it was strong enough to carry you. “You’ll find out soon enough.” 

It was only about ten minutes later that Mickey brought the car to a stop. In front of a flower boutique. It was closed - every single shop on the street was - so Ian wasn’t expecting a pleasant assignment. Not that he had been to begin with. 

“Go into that nice little shop right there,” Mickey leaned across the console, while they looked out through the windshield. “And tell the nice little lady to cough up the money she owes.” 

Ian swallowed, watching the shadow move inside the dark windows. At least he didn’t have to murder her - he wouldn’t have done that. Would he? No. 

“How much?” Ian asked. 

“Two thousand,” Mickey said, voice secure - sharp. He then leaned over into Ian’s space to open the glove compartment, fishing out a gun, and throwing it Ian’s way. “It ain’t loaded, I’m not an idiot,” he said, almost as if he was able to read Ian’s thoughts as he caught the weapon. “Just to help you out in there, yeah? I’ll be waiting right here. Shouldn’t take but a minute, yeah?” 

“What if she doesn’t have it?” Ian asked. 

“Then uh… I’ll have someone else take care of that. But you’re not leaving without making sure,” he stated, as if Ian didn’t have a choice. He didn’t. So finally Ian gave him a nod, and made his way out of the Cadillac, the weapon safely tucked into the waistband of his jeans. 

How was he supposed to get in? Well, he supposed like anyone else; he knocked, right before glancing back toward the waiting car and heaving a sigh through his nose. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned spending his night off- if you’d asked him a week prior he may have said he’d be spending the night catching up on a bit of reading or maybe finding a poker game somewhere. And yet, there he was, about to threaten some woman like a hood. 

The sound of a lock clicking caught his ears, and he did his best to steady his breath, right his posture, and come up with some sort of script. Mickey hadn’t given him much to go on, that dirty rat bastard, and the more Ian thought about it, the angrier he became. At Mickey. At his ‘new’ life. At the situation as a whole. 

“Can I help you?” 

And Jesus, when she opened the door, the weight of the world fell on his shoulders. He didn’t want her to get hurt. He wanted her to live. There were just certain things Ian was raised to believe when it came to women- thanks to his sisters strong hand- and first and foremost was to respect them. Be a gentleman. He hoped it would work. 

“Evening, ma’am. I’m sorry to bug you this late. But, uh. I’m, I’m here to collect,” he stuttered out. 

Her eyebrows inched up her forehead and she looked at him like he was half insane- and truthfully, he thought maybe he was. 

“Collect what?” She asked, and Ian shut his eyes tightly in frustration. 

“You know what. You owe some... some money. To. Ah, to Mickey M-”

“Mickey? Mickey’s looking for me? Does he know you’re here? Come in, come in,” she said, and tugged his shirt until he followed her and stepped out of the way of the closing door. 

“He knows I’m here,” he confirmed, and she bit at her lip. “Says you owe him two g’s.” 

“I- well, I do. But, what’d you say I maybe pay you some other way?” 

Ian wasn’t a stranger to women coming at him. He had a strong jaw and pretty eyes- or at least he’d heard so countless times. Of course, he’d never let any skirt take him home. He wasn’t wired that way. And even if he were, did this broad think he was ignorant? 

“I’m gonna need the cash,” he told her dismissively. 

When she didn’t make any move, instead standing there and looking at him like he was a piece of meat, he started to grow angry all over again. He didn’t like these types of situations. Didn’t like being ogled by someone he’d never in a million years go for. It pissed him off even more; maybe he hadn’t made himself clear. So with another sigh, he took the gun from the waistband of his jeans and held it up. 

“Look, lady. You’re either gonna give me the cash, or you’re gonna be real sore wishing you had,” he growled, lowering his voice as much as it would go, doing his best to make himself intimidating in some way. 

Her eyes widened at the glint of metal, a visible swallow throbbing against the pale skin of her throat. 

“I think you know how seriously Mickey takes his money. So if I was you, I’d be a good girl and run along and get it, okay?” 

A good girl? Fuck, two days of knowing the guy and he was already talking like him. It was a terrible feeling, to embody someone he loathed, but he couldn’t say that it didn’t work because after two seconds of staring, she was darting off somewhere to collect what she owed. 

And he didn’t... hate the feeling. The sort of power that came with this tactic. Well, he did. But also. It was sort of freeing to have someone listen to him. For him to say ‘jump,’ and for them to ask, ‘how high?’ And when she came back with a fat little envelope in her trembling hand, he wanted to test his new found persona. 

“I’m not gonna disrespect you and count it out right here. But I’m just gonna tell you that if it ain’t all in here, we’re gonna have problems. You understand me?” He asked, voice raspy with something he couldn’t quite pinpoint- desperation? Fury? ...Acceptance? 

“It’s there, I swear, mister,” she assured, and Ian had to physically stop himself from reaching out and patting her cheek. That feeling he was sure of- he was disgusted with himself. 

“You have a good night, ma’am,” he nodded, and just like that, he was back out the door. 

“Got it?” Mickey asked before Ian even had enough time to put his foot back inside of the vehicle. 

“Yeah,” Ian assured him, pushing the sleeves of Lip’s jacket over his hands and rubbing the envelope free of his fingerprints before he handed it over to Mickey, who took it with a gloved hand. 

“Boss,” he shoved it back down into his pocket, and then placed his hand back towards Ian, presenting his leather covered palm. It took Ian a second, but then he handed the weapon back over, wiping it down as well - probably not well enough, but it made him feel a little bit better as Mickey stepped on the gas, getting them back onto the road. 

For a while, there was silence - nothing but the low hum of the engine. Then Mickey lit up a cigarette, offering Ian one - he was too stressed out not to accept, so he lit it, and felt the tobacco calm his nerves. 

“You know, fish?” Mickey said thoughtfully with the cigarette in between his lips, as they continued burning down the road faster than what had to be allowed. “You ain’t as much of a wet rag as I took you for - you made work of that pretty fast back there.” 

Ian hummed, unsure of what else to say. The truth was that he didn’t want to think about it - what it had felt like, pointing that weapon at that lady, demanding that she do as he said. Of course, the humane part of him had despised it, but another part of him… felt… empowered. Like he wouldn’t mind doing it again. 

“You might turn out to be a decent guy to have around,” Mickey continued, and when Ian looked over, he had the cigarette in between his thumb and his index finger, breathing in the nicotine before he took it away from his lips, letting the smoke escape out through his nose. 

“I’ll do whatever you want, right?” Ian asked, but the tone of his voice was bitter, clearly reminding Mickey that he wasn’t there by his own volition. Mickey hummed once more in thought, before he turned his attention back to the road. 

Mickey dropped Ian off back at the Howard’s parking lot - which left a trip home, which Ian normally would have complained about, had it been anyone else in the driver’s seat, but he was only happy to be out in the air again. Besides, the further away Mickey could stay from Ian’s family, the better. 

✦✦✦

Ian made his way home, took a shower, went to bed - and then, just like any other day, he made his way into work. Only this time, it was chaos. Instead of smiling children and the sound of milkshake machines, there was the low rumble of voices among the employees, a group of men in police uniforms - and crime scene tape, and a rope, cutting off the hallway. The hallway that led to Mr. Hyde’s office. 

“Uh…” Ian looked around, quickly finding Ezra - the closest thing he had to a friend amongst his co-workers - if only for the fact that they had seen each other around growing up. “What’s going on?” He questioned, causing Ezra to flinch slightly, before he realized who the voice belonged to. He turned around slightly, their shoulder’s bumping thanks to the thick crowd of workers gathered by the entrance. 

“Hyde’s been missing for like two days - I heard someone say they found blood in his office,” Ezra explained, his voice hushed. Ian swallowed dryly, trying to gather some kind of saliva. 

“That could have been from anything, right?” He asked. “Where’d they find it?” 

“The ceiling,” Ezra whispered.

The ceiling. God damn it. The ceiling. Of course. How could he possibly have missed such an obvious thing? He had scrubbed and scrubbed for hours, looking at and inside drawers, at the doorknobs - but he had never once bothered to look up. If you hit someone over the head, of course there is going to be blood on the ceiling, how could he have been so goddamn stupid? 

“We need you all to leave, right now we’re treating this entire building as a potential crime scene - it’s closed until further notice,” a police officer stepped in front of the huddle of employees, waving them out the door. 

“He’s alive, right?” Someone asked, another employee answering their question with: “Everyone loves Hyde, of course he’s alive.” The police officer informed them that they could neither confirm, nor deny anything, and then he repeated the request for them all to make their way out of the building, and go back home. 

“I’ll figure out a way to make sure you won’t lose out on your paychecks,” Mrs. Hyde called after them, face flush with tears, voice rough. Ian mentally cursed himself. They were good people. She was a good person. Why. Why. Why. 

Ian's heart thudded in time with each pounding step he took against the sidewalk, blaring in his ears in a rush of adrenaline. He was going to die. There weren't any if, ands, or buts about it. Mickey was going to kill him. And probably his family too. If Ian left behind blood on the ceiling, what else had he left behind? His fucking I.D.? Probably. That was about as fucking stupid as he felt. All because he couldn't mind his own business and leave after he heard the thump. 

He concentrated on his breathing. In and out and in and out, because he was worried if he didn’t mechanically do it himself, he’d hyperventilate and pass out on the street. He was panicking. A near hysteria building up in his brain and in his guts that twisted him up like nothing before, and he briefly contemplated throwing himself off the nearest building.

But once again. What about his family? 

It made matters worse tenfold when he saw Mickey's shiny red Chevy parked at the end of the block, the wonder of the car out and leaving against it with his thumbs tucked into a pair of black suspenders. If this were any other man, Ian would be taken by his sharp clothing; a white button up beneath said suspenders that tucked into a tailored pair of black slacks. But as it were, seeing him look so professional only made it worse, because that’s exactly what he was; a professional fucking killer, and Ian surely deserved to be killed in his mind. 

“Get the fuck in the car,” Ian heard before he ever had a chance to blink, but this time, he did so without fighting. There wasn’t a use in it. Mickey would find him wherever he went, and the punishment would undoubtedly be worse. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian said before Mickey could even start in on him. He assumed he knew, judging by Mickey’s hard set jaw and fiery eyes. His fingers gripped around the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned a deathly white. 

“Sorry for what, Fish?” Mickey asked quietly. But the next words he spoke rose in intensity and sound, a rumbling threat that Ian knew he would make good on. “Sorry for fucking everything up? Sorry for being so fucking stupid that you couldn’t do a simple fucking task? That what you’re sorry for, Ian?!”

Ian stayed silent throughout the rest of the ride, knowing full well that there was not a single word within the English language that could possibly increase his chances of living another twenty-four hours. And considering the fact that those chances were already looking quite bleak, he figured that zipping his lip was the smartest thing to do. 

Mickey took the Chevy along the road, way over the speed limit, for a lot longer than Ian would have liked; leaving the main part of the city in the distance. When they finally slowed down, and Ian braved a look outside the window, it did nothing to stop his heart from beating into his throat - an abandoned parking lot - far enough from civilization that no one would be able to hear him scream. The only building within his field of view was a run-down warehouse, but Ian didn’t have much hope for the rusty pile of metal sheets saving his life. If there was anyone in there, they were surely not on his side. 

“Out the fucking car,” Mickey exited the vehicle, and within a split second, he was on Ian’s side, his fingers hooked around the collar of his shirt, pulling him out onto the cracked asphalt - Ian managed to stay on his feet, though. “You think this is a fucking joke?” Mickey asked him, voice louder now - not a hint of amusement, or sarcasm, or anything of the sort - pure, red, hot anger. Then he delivered a push to Ian’s frame - not the kind that kids gave each other on the playground, no - this was one that he used his entire body weight to deliver, and it would have knocked Ian over in a second flat, hadn’t he been prepared for it. 

Something about the contact made Ian snap - he wasn’t afraid anymore - he should be, but he wasn’t. This was something that he knew - physical fights, screaming words into someone’s face, and having similar words thrown right back? Many things he had experienced since this entire thing started had been new to him. This? Not new. So he pushed him right back. 

“Why you acting like any of this is my fault, huh?! Not like I’ve ever done this shit before!” 

“Tell me who I should blame, then, huh? Other than the braindead idiot who didn’t even bother to look up! How stupid are you? Know how many guys I got on my ass now?!” 

“There it is, isn’t it?!” Ian yelled, voice growing deeper with anger and frustration. “You know what to do, and you shoved your job on me without bothering to teach me anything, if anyone’s to blame, maybe it’s the short little guy that greets you in the mirror, huh?!” 

Mickey laughed. Loudly; bitterly. Then Ian was on the ground with a sore jaw and a bloody nose. They stared at each other. Ian wondered if Mickey had planned on punching him, or if the cauldron had simply boiled over. Either way, it was clearly one of his talents, he hit the exact right place on Ian’s face, and he wasn’t shaking his hand in pain the way that amateurs did. 

Ian could stay there, on the ground, and let Mickey drink in the fact that he was - literally - above him. But Ian had been punched in the face at least as many times as Mickey had most likely delivered them, so within thirty seconds, he was up on his feet, wiping his nose. 

Then he took one, two, and three large steps towards Mickey. Until their foreheads were nearly touching. 

“You think you’re a tough guy, huh? You’re not. I know when to lay low, and I’ve been taking it easy on you, but the next time you lay a finger on me, it’s coming back tenfold, you got it?” The words were coming from pure anger - the same kind of anger that had most likely caused Mickey to deliver the punch to begin with. It wasn’t smart - it was stupid. But he was tired of being bossed around, and tossed around - having his strings tugged on like he was a teenager. He was a fully grown man. 

Ian was fully expecting another punch - he was nearly longing for it, just so that he could make good on his promise. But as they stared into each others’ eyes, Mickey simply quirked a brow, his tongue coming out to swipe across his bottom lip.

“Know what, fish? You might turn out to be something after all.” Ian hummed in confusion as the tense cloud of anger faded in between them - slightly - and they both took a step back, Mickey looking him up and down. “Said I didn’t teach you, right? I’mma teach you.” 


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ukrainian dialogue translated at the end. (Take them with a grain of salt, because while we have done our best to learn some basic Ukrainian as to not rely on Google Translate completely, there are bound to be some mistakes.)

“Tell ‘em back to me,” Mickey said, expertly loading the Smith and Wesson .357. As he handed the weapon over to Ian, Ian noticed the bulge on the side of his hip - he wasn’t stupid. Ian reached out with his gloved hand, taking a breath. 

“Fast. Quiet. Unexpected,” Ian repeated the three rules of carrying out a hit. He had been doing this for three days now - letting Mickey drive him out to the lonely warehouse next to the parking lot where he had been so sure he was going to die not even a week earlier. 

“Atta boy,” Mickey complimented his answer, leaning against the hood of the Chevy that he’d driven all the way in, probably to keep his whereabouts as unknown as possible. Ian aimed the gun at the wooden bullseye. The daylight outside of the large, open doors gave him just enough light to see where he was supposed to be aiming. 

“If it’s supposed to be quiet, why am I holding a revolver?” Ian asked, turning his head to the side to let his words travel over his shoulder, and back to Mickey. Any weapon that spit out bullets was loud, but a revolver was loud enough to make anybody’s ears bleed if they weren’t prepared for it. 

“Comes in handy,” was all Mickey replied. Ian took a breath, braced himself for the gunshot, and then pulled the trigger. “D’you close your eyes?” Mickey asked him as Ian lowered the gun, and took a step closer to see the new hole in the second to largest circle on the board. 

“Yeah,” Ian admitted. 

“Can’t do that, gotta keep your eye on the prize, fish - go again,” he instructed him, and Ian brought the weapon back up as he heard the clicking of Mickey lighting a cigarette. By now, he had decided to stop over-analyzing what he was doing, and why he was doing it - at least the ethics and moral of it all. Besides - he still didn’t know what exactly Mickey did for a living, or who he worked for, but the three expensive cars he had seen him in the drivers’ seat of made Ian think that perhaps it was worth the soaked rags and loud gunshots. 

“There you go, fish - getting better.” 

A little hint of praise, and Ian felt a weird little swoop in his veins, a little bit of pride seeping into him. He was, of course, quick to squash that feeling into ash - a sickening feeling taking its place. This was not a man he wanted, nor needed words of affirmation from. This was a man who he longed to be far away from, and who he wished he’d never met. 

It was a feeling of relief, he reckoned with himself. A feeling that if Mickey thought he was doing well, maybe he’d live to breathe another day. Maybe his family wouldn’t be in Mickey’s crosshairs - if he just kept doing well and kept his head down. 

Ian aimed for the holes that Mickey had already shot - perfectly lined up the way he’d wanted them when he had shown Ian the proper technique. A smile broke out when he hit only a few inches away from one near the center, and looked to Mickey for his approval. 

He didn’t get anything more than a grunt, and he found himself strangely disappointed. Even more so when Mickey asked, 

“All your clothes look like shit, or just the ones I’ve seen?” 

“Excuse me?” Ian asked, squaring off his shoulders and feeling his muscles bristle with defensiveness. 

“Your threads. They look terrible. You need better ones. You look like a bum,” Mickey shrugged, either willfully ignorant or simply didn’t care that he was being offensive. 

“Gee, I’m sorry, Mickey. Not all of us have the money for that kinda shit. I’m more worried about, you know, fucking food and water,” Ian told him sarcastically. Briefly, he wondered if he could turn the gun on Mickey himself, but washed that thought away with one more startling; one of the guilt of taking a life. Even one as bad as Mickey’s. 

“Gonna have to dress a little sharper if you’re gonna be hanging around me, man.” 

“Yeah, and how am I supposed to pay for that? In case you’ve forgotten, my job is on fucking hold while they investigate _your_ crime scene.” 

Mickey blew smoke from his nose, in that signature way that Ian was starting to associate with him. He flicked the butt to the side, and pocketed his hands, leaning casually like this was something he did every day; teaching someone to be a stealthy killer - and for all Ian knew, it was. 

“Guess you’re gonna have to work a little harder. Got appearances to uphold. You’re already gonna stand out like a sore fucking thumb with that red ass hair you got,” Mickey said with a shitty grin. 

“I don’t want to blend in. I don’t want to be here at all, in case you’ve forgotten.” 

“Then let’s hope you learned your lesson for next time you hear a bump in the night. Mind your own fucking business.” 

“Yeah? Well maybe next time I hear something I won’t walk in to find-”

“I’d choose your next words real fucking carefully, Ian. _Real_ fucking carefully,” Mickey growled out, and Ian felt sick all over again. 

“Whatever,” Ian bit, choosing to cover his fear with snark as best as he could. “My clothes are fine.” 

✦✦✦

By the time Ian entered the Gallagher house, the daylight was slipping away, and he felt as if his entire body was ready to give up; not because he had been doing anything physically exerting, but because each time he was next to Mickey, it was as if every single muscle in his body was tense - waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the momentary, calm rug to be tugged out from beneath his feet. 

“Hi!” Fiona greeted, just placing the leftover lasagna into the, the beige door soon shielding the food from view. “Perfect timin’, where you been?” The dining chair creaked with Ian’s careless way of sitting down, as he heard his younger siblings’ bickering in the living room. 

“Uh, just… with a friend,” he answered, the lie causing his jaw to ache with the need to vomit. It was a lie. Technically. Then again - technically, it wasn’t, and that was what made Ian feel the worst. It wasn’t as if he and Mickey talked like friends, or acted like friends, but Ian had spent several civil hours next to him, and considering what they had been up to, it didn’t bring Ian a whole lot of pride. 

“Mickey?” Fiona questioned, taking some vegetables out of the humming fridge. Since Debbie had become old enough to have a job, they had enough money to buy fresh produce every once in a while, and Fiona had decided that they needed salad with every meal. They all knew better than to argue. 

“No,” Ian lied - despite how much he hated lying to her. If he told her that he had been with Mickey, then that would only further the illusion that Mickey was a good person, and he couldn’t do that to her - or to the rest of his siblings. “Someone else.” She hummed, giving him a sideways glance that told her that she thought he had been with someone who was a lot more than a friend, but he didn’t bother correcting her. 

“Any updates about your boss?” Lip came walking into the kitchen, his short-sleeved, oversized button-up still perfectly tucked into his twill pants, despite the late hour. Ian ran a hand over his own, jean-clad knee and distantly wondered which one of them truly had the worst style of dressing. 

“They’re still looking,” Ian replied, simply, hoping that his voice didn’t shake. He wasn’t much of a liar - then again, this wasn’t a complete lie. They were - still looking - it was just that Ian didn’t like the hope that those words suggested. 

“Think he’s alive?” Carl came into the kitchen as well, opening the fridge to take a beer out - which Fiona promptly stole out of his grasp, and put back, warning him that they would be having dinner in just a second. At this point, he had learned not to argue - he was lucky she allowed him to drink at all, considering the fact that he was not yet twenty one. 

“How should I know?” Ian asked, standing up, starting to head up the staircase in order to change out of the clothes that he had been in all day - perhaps some of the shame would peel off with them. 

When he came back down, the lasagna was on the table, the rest of his siblings were in the kitchen, and thankfully, the topic was dropped. 

✦✦✦

Ian woke up early the next morning. The sun crept through the curtains in a lazy orange glow, the chipper sound of birds carrying their tune cast the score. He wondered briefly why he woke up this early, as he didn’t have work, clearly, and didn’t usually make a habit of being up before at least eight. But the confusion faded away when his bleary eyes focused on the form of his sister standing above his bed. 

“Ian, Mickey’s here,” she said in a hushed voice. 

“What? Why?” He asked as he scrubbed a hand down his pillow-creased face. 

“Dunno. Said he needs to see you. It’s a little early for house calls, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah. Sorry, Fi. I’ll go. Tell him not to be so fucking crazy anymore,” he fake chuckled, trying to keep his tone light as to not spook her. 

He didn’t have energy for much aside from throwing on an ill fitting pair of pajama pants over his skivvies and running a tired hand through his wild hair. He tromped down the stairs growing more irritated with each step, anger bubbling up under his skin. This needed to stop. Mickey, despite Fiona’s insistence, did not have an open invitation to come and go as he pleased, especially when his coming involved waking everyone up. 

“What?” Ian barked as he threw the door open. 

Mickey eyed him from his toes to the top of his head, a scowl placed just above a look of arrogance. 

“You got five minutes to get your ass ready and be down here ready to go,” he said and turned just as quickly to skip down the front porch stairs. 

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why the hell you’re up with the birds beating my door down,” Ian said with a petulant stomp of his foot. 

“You achin’ for a breakin’? Shake a leg, man. Not gonna tell you twice.” 

Ian huffed and hardened his jaw, but when he heard the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, he reeled himself back in and slammed the door shut. He was quick with brushing his teeth, foregoing his daily shave. And just to add insult to injury, he threw on his rumpled clothes- the same ones that Mickey had insulted the day before. 

“Took you long enough,” Mickey muttered as soon as Ian slid himself in the passenger’s seat. “Jesus Christ, you look like dog shit.”

Ian locked his jaw, as Mickey began taking the car down the street. 

Before he could throw out a decent comeback, Mickey reached into the backseat and brought forwards a pile of folded clothes that he threw into Ian’s lap. “Put these on.” Ian turned to look at him, confusion written all over his face. “They ain’t yours, you can’t keep ‘em, but I can’t have you walking on in dressed like that,” he kept a hand on the wheel as he reached for the box of lucky strikes, using his head to nod a gesture at the clothes currently on Ian’s body. 

“Walk in where?” Ian questioned, a sharp edge to his voice that replaced the need to use the words ‘ _You haven’t told me anything. Remember? Are you stupid?_ ’ Mickey placed the cigarette to his lips, but despite his eyes not leaving the road, Ian could see him rolling them. 

“Just put ‘em on, man - now.” 

“Here?” Ian couldn’t help but question. 

“Christ, Fish, you ain’t my type, just get ‘em on,” Mickey repeated. For a second, Ian thought he heard a different tone to his voice - a slight fall, not quite a break, but a… bend? Ian’s voice did that when he was lying, but he chalked it up to the smoke entering Mickey’s lungs at the moment, and he obeyed. Awkwardly, he shimmied out of his own clothes, and just barely managed to get the other ones on in the small space of the passenger seat. A pair of black, pleated pants, a white button up, and a pair of black suspenders. Quite similar to what Mickey usually wore - but considering the size, they had to belong to someone else. “These too,” Mickey added, when Ian was as dressed as he could get inside a moving car. The words were accompanied by a pair of brown leather monks thrown into Ian’s lap. “And this.” And a black tie. 

Thanks to the two years working as a valet, Ian could tie a tie around his neck faster than anyone else he had ever met, so he did so, and then he pulled on the monks over his own - thankfully black - socks. 

“You happy?” Ian asked, then - slightly out of breath from the acrobatics that were required when changing an entire outfit in the front seat of a Chevrolet. Mickey looked away from the road, his eyes moving up and down Ian’s body, taking it in. 

“It’s better.” 

It was on Ian’s tongue to ask again - ‘ _You gonna tell me where we’re going now?_ ’ but he knew the answer - silence. So instead he leaned back against his seat, resisting the urge to huff like a child. 

The drive didn’t take too long, in all actuality. But to Ian, it felt like an eternity. Forever long of not knowing where he was going, who he’d meet or what he was supposed to say. For all he knew, he was being driven off to meet his end, but then, surely Mickey wouldn’t have made him dress nicely for that. 

The scenery flew by in a blue haze as they drove, the buildings going from small little dilapidated homes, gradually growing larger and larger until they were in the heart of the city; the backdrop of the lake off in the distance. Ian wasn’t unfamiliar with downtown Chicago; no one who grew up in the surrounding areas was. But he’d be lying if he said he made the short trip often. Usually opting to stay in his own little burrow to avoid the unnecessary crowds. Not to mention he couldn’t usually afford anything that this city had to offer. 

He was surprised when they pulled up to a diner- one that was out of place in the big city. It looked innocuous; like any other diner he might come across. His brows furrowed in confusion, looking to Mickey for an answer he most likely wouldn’t get. 

“Are you taking me for breakfast?” He asked stupidly. 

“I look like the type of guy who takes someone on a date to fucking diner? Shut up and get out of the car,” Mickey said as he rolled his eyes exasperatedly. 

Well, he didn’t say he wasn’t taking Ian on a date. And while that thought didn’t excite him, it did make him chuckle. He could just imagine the absurdity of dating Mickey. Mickey the murderer. Yeah, that sounds about on par for the course of his fucked up life. 

“Listen to me, Fish,” Mickey said when Ian clambered out into the parking lot, tugging his wrist and gripping it tight. “When we get in there, you keep your fucking mouth shut, you got me? Don’t matter what I say. You. Don’t. Say. Shit.” 

Ian but at his lip. If there was this much need for secretiveness, what the fuck was Mickey getting him into? 

“I won’t say anything,” he promised, hoping that he wasn’t in as much danger as he knew he was. 

Would Mickey keep him safe? Sure, he’d had a lesson in firearms, but it wasn’t as if he walked around strapped. He could probably handle himself if it were a fist fight, but if Ian had to guess- Mickey wasn’t exactly going to hang around the types of guys who fought fairly. 

Mickey nodded and led them inside, not bothering to hold the door open for Ian as he passed through it. The inside was much the same as the outside; typical in all of its mom and pop glory. Blue vinyl booths lined the windowed front wall, stools with chrome coating sat perched in front of the counter. The kitchen was visible through a serving window. Little old ladies served as waitresses. If Ian has to think of a word for it, he’d call it quaint. 

“Hi, Mikhailo,” one of the waitresses greeted as she made her way to a waiting table of customers. “Good to see you, sweet boy.” Ian grinned. Big bad Mickey was getting the full grandma treatment from this old broad, and Ian was delighted. He expected Mickey to blow her off, call her bitch and maybe spit at her feet, but he didn’t, and Ian was even more confused. 

“Morning, Dorothy,” he smiled, and leaned down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you too. The family here yet?” Ian was taken aback. Mickey was... sweet? To little old ladies? He was polite and courteous and everything Ian wouldn’t ever imagine him to be. 

“Sure are. Can I get anything for you and your... friend?” She asked, and gave Ian a polite little smile before turning back to Mickey. 

“No, thank you. Not right now. But I sure appreciate you asking. I’ll let you know if we change our minds.” 

She gave him another warm smile and gave a gentle squeeze to his arm before walking off to tend to her duties. 

Ian was so lost in the pleasantries that he briefly forgot where he was and who he was with. A momentary lapse in judgement allowed him to speak, 

“Mikhailo, huh?” Ian teased. All of Mickey’s sweetness was apparently lost, as his face fell and was replaced instead by a deathly glare. 

“You ever call me that again and I’ll cut your tongue out. Shut the fuck up and follow me.” 

Ian’s face fell, too. Worry replacing the warm feeling he’d had only moments ago as Mickey led him through the back and toward a door at the end of a semi long hallway. Just beyond the door was a set of stairs that lead down to what Ian assumed was the basement, but as he walked down the rickety steps, he realized it was far more than that. 

It was an office. One that Ian thought must have belonged to whomever Mickey worked for, and his fear amplified nearly enough to make him blackout. This place did not look like any diner basement he had ever seen - the walls were of wood paneling, the floor didn’t creak, and the ceiling was more than high enough for Ian to stand tall. Which he did - or at least tried to; he tucked his hands into the pockets of the pleated pants and straightened his back, doing his best to appear as if he knew exactly what was going on. 

They walked through the office, and Ian realized that they weren’t yet in _the_ office - they were in _an_ office. Mickey was heading down the end of the room, towards another door, and as Mickey knocked, Ian held his breath. What the hell had he gotten himself into? 

“хто це?” A muffled voice came from the closed room. 

“це Михайло, дядько Олександре.” Mickey answered smoothly in the same foreign language. It made Ian feel somewhat bad - somewhat - that he was surprised to find that Mickey was bilingual. To be fair, though - you had to look quite far and wide to find someone around here who was. 

“ти привів його?” Ian wasn’t sure what language it was exactly, but he would bet Russian. Maybe. He had never been very good when it came to linguistics. 

“так, він тут.” Had it been French, or Spanish, perhaps Ian could have recognized one or two words, but Russian? Not a chance. 

The mere sound of the shoes against the wooden floor on the other side of the door had Ian digging his nails into his own fingertips in order to keep calm. When the door finally swung open, the man was not what he had been expecting at all. Immediately, Ian could see a slight resemblance to Mickey - the blue eyes, the average height - perhaps his hair had even been the same shade of black a few decades ago, before the grey took over. At the same time, he was not like Mickey at all - he was thin, from his frame to his hollow cheekbones, and he greeted them with a smile - a smile that sent a slight chill down Ian’s spine, but a smile nonetheless. Perhaps he was just imagining things - he was in a secret basement with Russians, after all. 

“Михайло.” The man greeted Mickey with a hug - surprisingly enough - and Ian couldn’t help but notice the two fingers missing on the frail, aged hand. He exchanged a few more words with Mickey that Ian didn’t even bother to pretend to understand, and then he turned to Ian. “так це хлопчик?” Ian could tell it was a question, because of the tone at the end of the last word, and because of the way he looked to Mickey before looking back. Ian straightened his back. 

“Так,” Mickey replied. “Gallagher, this is my uncle Aleksandr.” Ian was about to part his lips to say something - something normal, like ‘ _nice to meet you_ ’ but a look from Mickey stopped him promptly, and instead he kept his shoulders rolled back, feeling much like a mannequin in the window of a clothing store. 

“цей хлопчик не українець, Михайло.” The words carried a warning tone as he spoke to Mickey, and Ian fought the urge to wonder if he was angry with him. He shouldn’t care. 

“він може бути корисним, сер. він знає, як розмовляти. знає, коли мовчати.” Ian looked back and forth, wondering how much of the conversation was taking place in between a boss and an employee, and how much of it was taking place in between an uncle and a nephew. 

“чи треба йому платити?”

“ні. як я сказав. неоплачена допомога.” 

“Nice to meet you, Ian Gallagher. Come on in.” It threw Ian off, slightly, to hear the man speak English - perfect English, albeit with a slight Russian edge. But he followed him and Mickey into the office, trying not to flip his lid when he heard the door being shut behind him. “So,” Aleksandr sat down in his large chair on the other side of the desk - the large, expensive, mahogany desk. There were two chairs on his and Mickey’s side, but Mickey didn’t sit, so Ian didn’t either. Instead he stayed behind Mickey, slightly to the side as to not seem in hiding - and he kept silent. “I understand that you’re in the know thanks to Mikhailo’s carelessness.” It seemed as if he was expecting an answer, but when Ian didn’t give one, he seemed pleased. 

“You’re right. He does seem to know when to закрити щелепу.” Mickey said something back, the two once again leaving English behind, and as Ian carefully looked around the office, suddenly he was thankful that Mickey had forced him into these clothes. Everything was shiny; expensive - quality. “чому ти хочеш його зсередини?” 

“він занадто багато знає. яке добре він зовні?” Ian tuned the conversation back in - of course unable to understand a word, but trying to figure out the tone in between them. After Mickey’s words, his uncle leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers braided together, resting in his lap. 

“ти повинен прийти до мене. Я не був радий почути вашу помилку від іншого капо. Я знаю, що я сувора, але ти мій племінник. ти завжди можеш прийти до мене.” 

Suddenly, Ian felt as if he shouldn’t be in here. As if it was too private despite him having no way of knowing what was being said. 

“Я розумію. Прошу вибачення за те, що вас розчарували.”

“Я розчарований лише тоді, коли ти мені не довіряєш. Я не твій батько.” Ian watched as Mickey nodded. “Можна принести. Я йому не плачу, а він - ваша відповідальність. Повністю.”

Something being said seemed to surprise Mickey - carefully, he began shaking his head, as if he was confused. 

“Я думав, що один з інших Капо може - ”

“ти хочеш утримувати собаку, ти вигулюєш собаку, ти годуєш собаку. нам зрозуміло?”

“так, сер.”

As quickly as they had entered the diner, as quickly they exited - Ian was once again subjected to more of Mickey’s friendliness towards the waitresses, which made him feel as if he was living inside of a strange hallucination. 

“You weren’t gonna tell me you speak Russian?” Ian asked as they reached Mickey’s car. 

Mickey paused, looking at him over the car. 

“Ukrainian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "Who is it?"  
> "It's Mikhailo, uncle Aleksandr."  
> "Did you bring him?"  
> "Yes, he's right here."  
> "Mikhailo." "So is this the boy?"  
> "Yes."
> 
> "This boy is not Ukrainian, Mikhailo."  
> "It may be useful, sir. He knows how to talk back, knows when to stay quiet."  
> "Do I have to pay him?"  
> "No. Like I said. Unpaid help." 
> 
> "...stay quiet." "Why do you want him on the inside?"  
> "He knows too much. What good is he on the outside?"  
> "You should have come to me. I was not happy to hear of your mistake from another capo. I know I'm strict, but you are still my nephew. You can always come to me."  
> "I understand. I apologize for disappointing you."  
> "I am only disappointed when you don't trust me. I am not your father." "You can bring him in. I will not pay him, and he is your responsibility. Fully."  
> "I thought one of the other capos could-"  
> "You want to keep a dog, you walk the dog, you feed the dog. Do we understand each other?"  
> "Yes, sir."


	6. six

Ian awoke early, but not so early that he was still tired. He didn’t feel the tendrils of sleep threatening to pull him back under, and it was beginning to almost feel foreign to him. He wondered briefly why that was- why he was so well rested when it occurred to him. Mickey hadn’t given him a wake up call, nor had he given him some asininely early meeting time.

He chose not to dwell on it, to figure out why he was granted (at least temporarily) a bit of freedom. He didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, opting instead to lay in his lumpy bed and stretch a bit before climbing out and finding breakfast.

He found his youngest brother, Liam, sitting in the kitchen with a soggy bowl of cereal, but it didn’t seem as though any of his other siblings were there. A rare sight to be sure, but not an unwelcome one. They’d taken recently to asking him if he was going to see Mickey again, to ask if maybe he’d stop by for dinner. They’d also taken to constantly telling Ian what a good influence they thought he would be on Ian (“ _You could learn a thing or two about being polite._ ”). If only they knew.

“Hey, man,” Ian said by way of greeting. “What’re you up to today?”

Liam shrugged and spooned a mouthful, chewing methodically, seemingly far off in his own world.

“Got plans today?”

“Not really,” Liam said and slurped at the leftover milk in his bowl.

“Looks like it’s a nice day out there,” Ian commented as he looked out of the dirty window just above the kitchen sink. “Maybe we could spend some time in the sun?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know… the park or something?”

Liam looked at him as if he were insane- that typical way that pre teens often do. That long suffering way that told Ian he was the absolute un-coolest man Liam had ever met, and while Ian felt a little pang of longing for the tiny brother he’d had just a few years ago, he understood where he was coming from. Ian was that age not so long ago.

“I know, I know. You’re too old. I get it. But maybe we can find something to get into down there. Besides, what you got going on here?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Liam sighed and pushed his chair back from the table. “When do you wanna go?” Ian shrugged, quickly listing the things they both needed to get done first - shower, get dressed - Ian should probably get his own bowl of cereal.

“Fifteen minutes?” Liam seemed to think for a minute as he placed the empty bowl into the sink.

“Make it twenty,” he decided, and Ian distantly wondered what form of hell they were all in for once he hit his actual teen years.

Despite Liam’s immediate aversion to the park, it turned out to have been a good idea - thanks to the fact that it was a warm and sunny day, there were a lot of people that had come up with the same one. Liam found at least three dogs to pet before they had even really entered the park - he was also quick to find an ice cream stand, and thankfully, Ian had just enough change to buy them each a cone before they continued walking.

“You’re right,” Liam said thoughtfully, as they sat down on a bench, a perfect view of the two perfectly groomed poodles in the distance as they jumped around, playing together all the while gracefully avoiding the other people littered across the bright, green grass. “This isn’t so bad.”

It was on Ian’s tongue to throw out an ‘I told you so’ or a ‘See? You should listen to me more often’ but he didn’t feel like it - not today. The sun was too bright, the children’s laughter in the distance was too bubbly, and Ian was too happy to be spending some time with his younger brother. So instead of throwing the admission back into Liam’s face, he settled for affectionately ruffling his short hair.

Then Ian’s stomach dropped. He could feel the previous sense of content slipping away, disappearing - the sunshine doing nothing to warm his cold veins.

“Give me a minute, Li, stay here,” Ian nudged his shoulder, and threw his own ice cream away as he got up, heading across the park - as inconspicuous as he could - but perhaps the anger in his movements was visible from a mile away. He wouldn’t be surprised.

“Isn’t this a little much?” Ian crossed his arms as he caught Mickey’s attention, satisfied that he had been looking away for the thirty seconds it had taken Ian to walk over. He couldn’t be too talented at the whole stalking thing, after all. Mickey turned his head, looking up at Ian, where he stood at the end of the old, wooden park bench.

“What’s that?” Mickey questioned, his eyebrow raising as he got to his feet. Ian fought the urge to roll his eyes, opting to clench his teeth for a beat before he clarified.

“What you’re doing. Following me around - what’s the point of it? I told you I-,”

“Daddy, can we get ice cream?” Ian was cut off by a little blond boy, barely older than a toddler, as he came running up to them. The interruption threw him off even more, when instead of waving him off, grumbling that the kid was blind and had run up to the wrong man - Mickey bent down and picked him up. He even chuckled, and smiled at him - in a way that Ian had never seen him do before. It seemed… genuine. Completely.

“Of course we can, buddy - you wanna go now?” The boy nodded enthusiastically. “How many scoops?” Mickey asked.

“Three!” The boy decided, holding up the right number of fingers to go with the request.

“Three, huh?” Mickey questioned, squinting at him as if he was truly considering it. Then he unwrapped one of his arms around the boy, and softly bent one of his tiny fingers. “How about we go with two?”

“Okay,” the boy nodded again.

“Okay.” Then Mickey turned to Ian, his adorable son still on his hip as his smile faltered. For the first time, Ian noticed that there was something different about him - the casual way he was dressed, the way his hair was minimally styled - if at all - he wasn’t at work. “I got a life. Not everything’s about you, fish,” he stated, voice even and secure. “Say goodbye to Ian.” The way that he said his first name was casual, but the look in his eye was a warning.

“Bye, Ian,” the boy waved. As Mickey turned around, carrying his son towards the ice cream stand, Ian was seemingly frozen. What?

✦✦✦

It was two days later when Ian sat in his customary space to Mickey’s right, fiddling with the window of the Chevy and watching the world whirl past in a blur. He was starting to become more and more used to spending his time with him, easing the constant ache in his stomach down to a dull roar rather than the searing fire that once lived there. And it was a new boost of confidence that compelled him to ask, “So, you got a kid, huh?” 

Mickey took a drag from his cigarette and blew it out so smoothly that it was almost like he was born with a smoke in his hand. A casual way that told Ian that he would answer his questions when he damn well pleased, and not a moment sooner. He shrugged and nodded without taking his eyes off the road, and Ian frowned, knowing that prying information from him would be like pulling teeth.

“What’s his name?”

Mickey’s eyes trailed to the side, giving Ian a glance without actually giving him the proper attention that he craved- he’d been deprived of contact outside of his family since he met Mickey, and for an extrovert like him, it was making him a little wound up.

“Yevgeny.”

“Mm,” Ian mused. “Yevgeny and Mikhailo. No one can deny your family style points for creativity, can they?”

“Don’t fucking call me Mikhailo,” Mickey snapped, and Ian rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t. I just mentioned it. It’s your name.”

Mickey clenched his jaw, and Ian felt a little swell of pride building in his chest, knowing that he was able to get under Mickey’s skin thrilled him in the strangest possible way.

“Yeah, well. Don’t.”

“Whatever you say, Mickey,” Ian grinned. “How old is he?”

“How old is who?”

“Your son, you dunce.” He smiled again when Mickey turned to him with a glare.

“He’s three.”

“Three. That’s a great age. I remember when my younger siblings were that age. They were alway-”

“I look like I want a history lesson in your family? Christ, do you ever shut up?” Mickey spat and flicked the butt of his cigarette out of the window.

“Sure I do. When I want to. I just don’t want to, right now. So, Yevgeny. What kind of stuff is he into?”

Mickey sighed, momentarily defeated by Ian’s line of questioning. He scratched at the arch of his left eyebrow with one hand as the other maneuvered the car along.

“I dunno, man. Dinosaurs, I guess,” he said harshly, though he had a fond look on his face as he said it, like he was so full of pride that he couldn’t help but show it on his features.

“Cool. What’s his favorite?”

“You writing a book? Damn...”

Ian sat quietly after that. He didn’t want to push his luck. As much as he enjoyed the banter, he wasn’t exactly itching to push his luck. Until.

“Compsognathus.”

“Huh?” Ian asked, and for just a moment he thought that maybe Mickey was speaking Ukrainian.

“His favorite dinosaur. Compsognathus. They’re...” he trailed and rolled his wrist as he thought. “Small. Or whatever. He likes those because he’s tiny too. I don’t know. Kid’s an oddball.”

“Nah,” Ian laughed. “He’s cute.”

“Yeah. He is,” Mickey agreed with that same sweet, wistful look.

“Looks a lot like you.”

Shit. As soon as he said it, he knew he fucked up. Knew it would sound like he was implying that Mickey was cute, he was cute, but that’s not something Ian meant to just go spouting off. Because he loathed the guy. Because outing himself was dangerous. Because outing himself to Mickey Milkovich was damn near suicidal. But Mickey didn’t say anything, just gave another side glance to Ian’s direction and kept on driving.

“So, uh,” Ian tried to change the subject. “How long have you been married?”

“What? I’m not married.”

It wasn’t entirely unheard of, for someone to have a child but not a wife. But it certainly wasn’t common, and the revelation had Ian’s curiosity peaked.

“Oh? I just assumed...”

“Well don’t,” Mickey said, his cold tone back in full force. “You don’t know shit about me. And you won’t ever know shit about me. So mind your own fucking business.”

The words stung. He thought that they were making decent progress. Mickey had indulged all of his questions thus far, and he was beginning to think that maybe they could at least be acquaintances, but fuck him for trying, right?

“So I can ask about your kid, but that’s it?” He asked dumbly, and Mickey gave him a deadly look.

“No, you can’t ask shit. We have a business deal. That’s it. We’re not fucking friends. So you keep your stupid fucking questions to yourself, because I got no time for them. Got it?”

“Got it,” Ian confirmed, but he couldn’t stop the edge to his tone. Now that he wasn’t as afraid of Mickey anymore, and now that he had managed to bury his morality enough not to question his own actions every second that he was in the same room as him, he had wanted to… get to know him. He liked to get to know people in general. He should have known better. Mickey was not the kind of person he would have the displeasure of knowing. Perhaps he would thank the stars for that someday.

Following the icy conversation, Ian kept his mouth shut for a decent amount of time - which was difficult since Mickey never told him what they were doing, or where they were going, and it was rare for him to drag Ian out in broad daylight. Alas, he knew what his answer was going to be, and it wasn’t going to be one that he would like.

Being the middle child in a large family should have conditioned Ian to have the patience to be silent when he needed to be, but in reality, it had done the opposite - from a young age, he had spoken loudly, and often, to make sure that he was heard - it was a difficult habit to kick. So after twenty minutes of silence, he began shaking his leg, soon reaching for the radio.

“Let’s listen to music-,”

“Are you fucking insane?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Mickey cursed, slapping away Ian’s hand with enough force that it actually caused a bit of pain. Ian frowned, watching as he promptly turned the radio back off, sighing. Ian bit his tongue for another ten seconds, but then he couldn’t help himself.

“Thought you said you were gonna teach me. Giving me a knuckle sandwich isn’t gonna help if I don’t know what I did or why I can’t do it,” he informed Mickey - partly because it was true, and partly because he craved conversation, even if it was the kind where Mickey called him a useless human being - which hadn’t happened yet, but easily could. Once again, Mickey sighed, and he pulled onto the side of the street, the car coming to a stop for the first time in over an hour.

“You’re a fish,” Mickey stated, voice harsh - he wasn’t looking at Ian, instead he kept his eyes out through the windshield - not as if he was afraid of what would happen if he looked at him, but rather as if Ian didn’t deserve it. “When you’re a fish - you don’t ask the questions. When you’re a fish, they tell you to swim, and you say how far - they say a mile, you go for two - got it?”

It had been on Ian’s tongue countless times to ask what the nickname meant - it was there now - but Mickey’s description of being a ‘fish’ answered him just fine - not that he understood the logic - and he didn’t want to be kicked out of this car an hour from home, so he said nothing.

“Got it?” Mickey repeated, voice sharp.

“Got it,” Ian confirmed, and as Mickey got the car moving again, he found himself wondering if Mickey had ever been a _fish_. 

Ian keeping his mouth shut seemed to benefit him, because only thirty minutes later, they neared a drive-in diner, and Mickey asked him if he wanted to eat.

“I don’t have any money,” Ian admitted, the statement plain - not an ounce of self-pity, or longing - he had gotten good at that - denying food because of a lack of money despite his stomach growling.

Mickey didn’t say anything, but pulled in anyway, and then he ordered food for both of them. Ian managed a ‘thanks’ but didn’t want to push his luck - he had a feeling even words of gratitude got under Mickey’s skin. With the warm paper bag in Ian’s lap, Mickey continued driving for a minute, until he pulled into a parking garage, not stopping until they were on the roof. They split the food in between them, and began to chew.

“That guy over there,” Mickey finally spoke after about two minutes or so - Ian was grateful, because he wouldn’t have made it another two without going back to annoying him, if only for conversation. He followed Mickey’s index finger through the windshield, and down onto the street, towards the guy making his way into an apartment building - he was too far away for Ian’s eyes to catch any details.

“Yeah?”

“That’s who we’ve been following. Boss says he might be singing.”

“If he is?” Ian asked.

“Then you better remember to check the ceiling this time.”


	7. seven

Two months down the line, Ian sat in Mickey's Cadillac with a Lucky Strike burning between his fingers. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs with a burning tingle before blowing it out through his nose. He had the radio set to a rock n' roll station that was by far his favorite, just turned up enough to keep the ringing out of his ears. 

He leaned back in his seat, and with his free hand, he gripped the wheel and gave it a little turn. He wasn't moving, but the stakeout duty he'd been on by himself for the past three weeks was boring at best. He hoped it would come to an end soon, one way or another. Hopefully for the better, but if the guy was squealing, then. Well. 

In the last two months they didn't have much on Petro, but they had just enough to warrant a closer look. It wasn't much beyond not being where he said he would be, but Mickey and his family had grown more curious every time it happened. And so, Ian was stuck doing the work that no one else had wanted.

He must have waited what, two- maybe three hours before Petro emerged from the small house just on the outskirts of town. It wasn’t his home, but it wasn’t uncommon to find him there; his mistress’ house, Mickey had told him. Ian smiled when he kissed the woman he was there to see good bye, and sauntered to his car. 

By the time Petro pulled into his driveway and his headlights grew dim, Ian was positively elated. Sitting and twiddling his thumbs for hours on end was growing worse and worse as the days went on, but Mickey (not to mention his uncle) were certain that something fishy was going on, and that he needed near constant surveillance. 

When another car pulled to the curb just up the street, flashing its headlights twice, Ian left for the night. 

The fucker was staying out later and later, which meant Ian’s meeting time of 8 AM daily was growing closer and closer to the time he had to go to sleep. Not to mention having to wake up earlier than he ever had before to shower and don all of his borrowed clothes. Mickey claimed that he couldn’t show his face dressed like a hood all of the time- the family held higher standards, fuck you very much. 

So, just like any day, he woke up. Took extra care with washing. Took extra care with his hair. Put on his freshly washed and ironed clothes. Made sure his shoes were shined. And headed to meet Mickey for report at the diner. 

“What you got?” It had become Mickey’s standard greeting at this point, and Ian had gotten used to it. As he sat down in the booth in the back - the one reserved for Mickey and the rest of the people he worked with - he only replied with a nod before he got into the information that he had - or rather, the information that he didn’t have. 

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered, leaning back against the vinyl seat. Then one of the waitresses came up to the table, and he looked up at her, a sweet smile immediately taking over his features as she placed their cups in front of them and filled them with coffee. “Thank you very much, Dorothy.” 

“You’re so sweet, Mikhailo” she cooed, a hand on his cheek before she replaced it with her lips, and then left their booth. Ian couldn’t quite identify the tumble that his stomach took at the sight of the casual intimacy, so he decided to forget about it. Unfortunately, his mouth didn’t quite get the memo.

“Yeah, you’re so sweet, Mikhailo,” he teased in a voice that was ever so slightly pitched up from his own. Mickey looked at him across the table, eyes darkening in a way that two months ago would have sent Ian cowering - now it didn’t have much of an effect anymore - despite this, Ian knew to stop there. He brought his own cup of coffee to his lips, hiding his smile. 

“Whatever - I got what I need,” Mickey sighed, swallowing all of the black coffee out of his cup at once, somehow not screaming in pain from the steaming liquid. He then got up, starting to head away from the table and towards the doors. 

“When’s your next shift?” Ian called out after him, using the vague terminology that he had taught him. Of course, Ian was not the only one tailing Petro - he wasn’t nearly trusted enough for that. There was still a group of made men taking shifts, not only keeping track of Petro, but making sure that Ian’s information added up and looked to be true. Mickey turned around, fishing a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his back pocket, and placing one of the cigarettes in between his lips. 

“‘’morrow night.”

“Can I join?” Mickey raised his eyebrows - not too much, just a twitch, and Ian was quick to add: “Wanna learn more - become better.” It was true - as much of a brick wall as Mickey was regarding most things - when it came to conversation about the best way to do things, these days, he was usually decently talkative. Ian learned a lot - every time he followed him on a job. And thankfully, none of them had been nearly as messy or as dark as the one he had originally walked in on. 

“Sure, but you annoy me the whole time, imma go ape.” Ian shook his head - he had gotten a bit better - he still enjoyed annoying Mickey, but he could recognize when a moment absolutely was not right for it. Mickey turned around, and walked out. “Nine thirty, fish.” 

Passing the day was easy enough. Go home. Go back to sleep. Wake up. Eat lunch. Smoke a couple of cigarettes. Make sure his outfit was presentable enough and up to Mickey's standards. Help Fiona around the house. Eat dinner with his family. Smoke. 

Wait on the steps for Mickey to show up and pick him up. 

He was halfway through a smoke, a nasty habit that he'd always had to some extent- but one that grew exponentially the more he spent his time with Mickey, when the bright headlights and low, throaty sound of Mickey's Chevy pulled up just outside of his house. He flicked the butt away with practiced ease, and skipped his way down the stairs. 

"Hiya, Mick," he said as he slid into the passenger seat, and didn't waste any time in flipping through the radio stations to find one he liked. He didn't miss the scowl on Mickey's face as he did so, nor did he miss the fact that Mickey had long ago given up trying to keep his car nice and quiet when Ian was involved. 

"Yeah, hi," Mickey answered, and pulled away with one hand on the wheel. 

He looked particularly good, if Ian were one to take such things into consideration. He had on a plain white t-shirt and jeans- if Ian were a betting man, he would guess that if he could see into the darkness near Mickey's feet, that said jeans would be rolled up near his boots. His hair tousled messily against the wind that blew in from the open window, and his eyes shone bright even in the dim lighting of passing street lights. This version of Mickey was always Ian's favorite. One where he didn't look so rigid and out together for someone else's benefit. One where he looked young and carefree, like any other guy walking down the street. But Ian wasn't one to take those sorts of things into consideration, because that would spell disaster with a capital D if he were to entertain those thoughts.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Ian feigned ignorance for the sake of playfulness. “Gonna bust in, guns blazing, take him down like an old western shootout?” 

Mickey eyed him from the side and raised an eyebrow, choosing not to say anything. 

“Okay, okay. Not that. Uh, we go in. Grab him. Tie a cement block to his foot and it’s bye-bye Petro? Hope the bottom of the river treats you well?” He tried instead, knowing fully well that his night most likely wouldn’t turn out any differently than any of the other nights he’d spent outside Petro’s house. 

“You smoking something funny?” Mickey asked, but if Ian weren’t mistaken, he could have sworn that he saw a little hint of amusement playing against Mickey’s lips in the form of an unwanted smile. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mikhailo,” Ian grinned and shifted his gaze to his window. 

“Don’t-” Mickey started. 

“...Call me Mikhailo,” Ian finished for him, trying and failing at his best impersonation of the man. “Yeah, yeah. I get it, you broken record.” 

“Wouldn’t have to repeat myself if you’d just listen the first time,” Mickey grumbled, taking the pack of Lucky Strikes from their permanent home in his glove compartment. He needled one out for himself before passing his pack off to Ian and lighting the tip on a warm red glow. 

“Maybe I just like hearing you talk, ever think of that?” Ian teased and lit his own cigarette. 

He caught a hint of a smile again, just a small twitch of Mickey’s lips before it was quickly shut down. And for all of the fear that the man had put into him, he reveled in the kindness. 

“Ah. You like hearing me talk, but you never actually listen,” Mickey said and tapped at his temple as if he were coming to a startling revelation. 

It was strange, Ian thought, that Mickey- Mikhailo Milkovich- was playing along with him. Sure, there’s been little glimpses into a softer interior over the past couple of months, but nothing so startling as this. 

“That’s cause you never actually have anything good to say,” Ian told him, trying his best for nonchalance.

“Oh, is that so?” Mickey fought his laugh. “Maybe you’re just too fucking dim to understand.”

“I don’t think so,” Ian shrugged plainly, now back to looking out the window, watching the streetlights fly by. “I tested out of English.” 

“ти розмовляєш лише однією мовою, і говориш постійно, навіть коли я тобі загрожує. ти не здаєшся розумним.” Ian turned back to look at Mickey, squinting in thought. 

“я не згоден,” Ian replied back - the one and only phrase he had forced himself to learn, assuming that it would come in handy quite a bit as he had started to understand that Mickey switching over to Ukranian when it was just the two of them usually meant that he was making fun of him. 

“Watch it, or you’re gonna say you don’t agree with something you agree with.” 

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t mutter things in a language I don’t understand.” 

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you kept your damn mouth shut to begin with,” Mickey bit back, his voice losing some of its teasing tone - not that there had been much to begin with. Ian considered saying something back, but he could tell when it wasn’t the time, and this was not the time - Mickey’s face was starting to grow a frown, and he leaned forward somewhat, trying to see further up ahead. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, falling back against the seats as they followed Petro into the drive-in movie, Mickey paying for them both on the way in. 

“He’s probably meeting someone,” Ian said thoughtfully. 

“Yeah, no one we care about,” he nodded to the woman leaving her bicycle behind, getting into his car. 

“Is that a third one?” Ian asked as Mickey found a spot, far enough away that they wouldn’t be seen by Petro, but close enough that they could still see him, and close enough that they seemed to be there for the movie. “Why does he need a third mistress?” 

“No one _needs_ a mistress at all, Fish,” Mickey muttered, turning the car off as it seemed they were going to be stuck there for a while. Ian turned to look at him, quietly taking in his profile - the disappointed and annoyed look on his face that didn’t waver for a second as he leaned his temple against the tips of his fingers, elbow against the window. Ian understood - Mickey had been hopeful tonight - hopeful to catch him doing something he shouldn’t; being involved in organized crime was truly a lot of sitting around - Ian had understood that by now. 

“So you wouldn’t have one?” 

“Fuck no,” Mickey bit, shaking his head, and perhaps Ian should have been surprised - but considering the fact that he had seen the private side of Mickey that day in the park - brief as it had been - he really wasn’t. Was Mickey a good guy? The jury was still out on that one, but at the end of the day, who really was? Regardless, he surely wasn’t worse than the so-called non-criminals who stepped on people to get to the top, married a younger woman and betrayed her with three other young women. Good was idiosyncratic. 

Ian managed to stay silent for a while after that - mostly because they were literally within shouting distance of the person they had been tailing for months, and as much pride as Ian took in annoying Mickey - he knew when it was time to be serious. 

Alas, there wasn’t anything for them to do other than watch the movie, and ‘ _A Star is Born’_ wasn’t really turning out to be Ian’s kind of movie, so within fifteen minutes, he became restless, and he looked back to their target. 

“What do you think they’re saying?” Ian asked, bringing Mickey’s attention to the couple, their silhouettes showing the way that their lips were moving as they spoke. 

“Probably promising he’s gonna leave his wife,” Mickey shrugged. “She’s probably buying it, too,” he added, lighting up a cigarette. After taking a puff, he handed it over to Ian - it seemed both of them were too focused on Petro and his mistress to realize that they were doing something that was typically considered intimate - sharing a cigarette. Back and forth. 

“Don’t blame her, some guys are smooth,” Ian stated before he realized what it had sounded like. 

“Guess so,” Mickey agreed before he could agonize too much over it. 

“I’m so lucky to have such an honest and fine young man in my life,” Ian brought his voice up slightly, before he could stop himself. Mickey grunted in amusement, handing the quickly disappearing cigarette back over to Ian. 

“Darling, I promise you I’m the lucky one,” Mickey continued, lowering his own. Ian looked at him, surprised but delighted. “You’re one of the twenty five most beautiful ladies in this parking lot.” Ian laughed, unable to help it - it was rare that Mickey actually let himself joke like this with him - usually he just kind of let Ian annoy him, while he muttered beneath his breath. 

“Most men would take their mistresses to a drive-in movie to play backseat bingo, but you’re different. You took me here to watch this wonderful movie you’re so clearly interested in,” Ian picked up, Mickey snorting in response. 

“Yeah, uh… speaking of that,” he continued in his Petro-impression - not that either of them actually knew how he sounded; they would be spotted in a second if they were following someone they had actually been face to face with before. “How about we play some backseat bingo?” 

Ian chuckled, stubbing out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray. It was slightly closer to the driver’s seat than the passenger seat, so he had to lean a little bit closer to the center console. By pure awful timing, Mickey turned his head to look at him just then, and their faces ended up just slightly closer than most people would agree with two men being. 

Ian didn’t know how long it lasted - the eye contact, the feeling of his heart in his throat - the voice in the back of his head begging him to look down to Mickey’s mouth. It felt like a lifetime - in reality, it probably wasn’t much more than ten seconds until Mickey looked away, and cursed loudly, immediately breaking the spell. 

“Fuck! He’s gone.” 

"Again, wouldn't be a problem if you weren't so fucking dumb." The words were scathing, but the way his eyes crinkled made it all worth it.

Ian punched his arm lightly and dodged it when Mickey flailed blindly in retaliation. For just a moment he could forget where he was and why he was there. For just a little bit he could pretend that he was just out with someone he might even call a friend under different circumstances, and it was... nice. Mickey wasn’t someone he ever envisioned getting along with, but the more time he spent with him, the more time he wanted to spend with him. 

Mickey was turning out to be an okay guy. He was overly driven and a hard ass, sure. But he was also smart and witty, and oftentimes had Ian laughing whether he meant to or not. Ian didn’t dread the knocks on his door or the phone calls summoning him to the diner. And he certainly wasn’t against spending the night parked in front of Petro’s house with nothing to pass the time but the low volume of the radio and the sound of their own voices. 

Mickey turned his headlights off and stopped the car a few houses up from their destination, letting them settle into a comfortable quiet before he rummaged around in the backseat and pulled out two chocolatey candy bars and handing one to Ian wordlessly. Ian grinned and ripped into the foil, letting his soft little chewing noises do the thanking for him. 

“How’s Yevy?” He asked around a mouthful of sweets. 

“ _Yevgeny’s_ fine. Got him a new little paleontology kit. Kid’s been digging up my whole back yard. Thinks every little rock he finds is some sort of fossil. Says he’s gonna build his own museum,” Mickey told him with a soft fondness in his voice that only came from talking about his son. 

“If he’s looking for rocks, he should check the ones rattling around in your skull,” Ian shrugged, crumpling up his wrapper and tossing it on the floor. 

“Ay, first of all, bitch. Pick your garbage up or I’m gonna break that freakishly big hand of yours. Secondly, fuck you.” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ian picked the wrapper up, voice dripping in satire and exasperation. It earned him little more than a middle finger. 

They stayed there for a lot longer than Ian would usually be able to sit still. Though, with the low volume of the radio playing decent song after decent song, barely any breaks in between - together with the faint scent of smoke from the cigarettes they shared, and the distant noise of the city - it wasn’t so bad. In fact, by the time that another car showed up at the end of the street and flashed its headlights, Ian thought that perhaps he was even slightly… disappointed. 

God, he really needed to make some actual friends outside of his siblings and a mafia caporegime, didn’t he? 

“Want me to throw you back home or you feel like coming back to my place and getting a beer?” Mickey questioned as he got them back onto the highway. To Ian’s surprise, it didn’t even sound like it was a strange question - it sounded like it was normal, like he had asked it a million times before. Except he hadn’t. Because despite the banter and mindless conversation, Ian and Mickey were not friends. Not like that. Not personally. Mickey often made sure to make that very clear. 

“I’ll have a beer,” Ian answered before he could have enough time to overthink it, and thereby drive himself crazy. 

Mickey drove them through the city, and it took at least fifteen, twenty minutes until they were at his place - a lot longer than Ian would have thought. Mostly because he had without much thought just assumed that Mickey lived in an apartment - possibly some kind of a townhome, or duplex. What he hadn’t been expecting was a house - an actual, two story, Mediterannian style home. With its own garage and everything. Ian counted at least two balconies, and that was only from the front. Perhaps it wasn’t a mansion, but in Ian’s eyes, it might as well have been. It was the kind of house he never even dreamt about owning, because he knew there was no point to it. 

“Jesus, how many people live here?” Ian asked as Mickey pulled the car into the driveway, coming to a stop next to a cypress tree. 

“Just me, man - and Yev but it ain’t my week,” Mickey shrugged, and got out of the car as if it was nothing. Ian swallowed his surprise, and followed him suit, leaving the car for the perfect pathway, coming to a stop behind Mickey. Ian watched him fish the keys out of his pocket, stepping through the rounded door. He took his jacket off, and threw it over the back of the brown leather sofa, dismissively telling Ian to do the same. 

Soon enough, Ian managed to let go of the shock - helped, of course, by the bottle of beer that Mickey had taken out of the fridge and chucked his way. 

“So your son’s with his mom, huh?” Ian asked, nothing but pure curiosity in his voice. Mickey took a swing of his beer, and made a noise in between a ‘yes’ and a burp. “You get along with her?”

“What’d I tell you about asking stupid questions ‘bout my private life, man?” Mickey asked, the base of his beer clicking as it landed on the island counter. 

“I don’t know, I wasn’t listening,” Ian shrugged. He couldn’t help being curious, though - separated parents weren’t a common thing. 

“S’the problem with you, ain’t it? Never get your head out of your fucking ass long enough to hear anyone else,” Mickey said, both eyebrows raised up as he tossed his head back and let cool beer sting at his throat. 

“Better my own head than someone else’, huh?” He shot back, following Mickey back into the living room. 

“Guess so, if that’s not your kinda thing,” Mickey said offhandedly and went about turning the knobs on his television. Static filled the screen as Ian stared at it blankly, replaying Mickey’s words. ‘ _If that’s not your kinda thing. If that’s not your kinda thing. If that’s not-_ ’

“What’s your kinda thing?” Ian asked, and immediately regretted it. It wasn’t his business, and it certainly wasn’t something he expected Mickey to dignify with a response. Mickey would probably hit him, angered at Ian’s loose lips, hell, he might even kick him ou-

“Same as every other red blooded American man,” Mickey shrugged. 

“And what’s that?” 

“I dunno, Ian. You tell me. You’re a red blooded American man yourself, aintcha?” 

The way Mickey looked at him- the way his smile curled up in a challenge, the way his eyes glittered in the early morning sun pouring in from the floor to ceiling windows- almost made Ian say it. Almost made him tell Mickey that his type looked a little something like, ‘ _you_ ’ But he didn’t say it. Of course he didn’t. 

“Long legs. Big tits,” he said instead, and tried to look convincingly nonchalant as he put the bottle to his lips.

“Uh huh. Yeah. Sure.” 

Ian felt like he was being toyed with. Like Mickey had some elaborate game set up against him. Almost like he wanted Ian to tell him that he liked facial hair and hard muscles and deep voices and. Men. Ian liked men.

“What, you don’t believe me?” Ian was a little offended. He played straight with the best of them, and if Mickey thought differently, then fuck him. 

“Didn’t say a thing, Fish.” 

“So what’s your type?” Ian tried to change the subject before he said something really stupid, and hoped Mickey would take the bait.

“Don’t have one.” 

“Everybody has one,” Ian smirked, and with that same playful streak he’d kept for as long as he’d known him, he said, “Probably a nice crew cut and a good, strong jaw, huh?” If Mickey wanted to play that game, Ian could play too. Only. Mickey wasn’t playing anymore. 

“Fuck you say to me?” Mickey shouted as he jumped to his feet, eyes looking murderous and fists clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Calm down. I was only-”

“What, you think it’s funny to call me some fucking Nancy? I look like I take a cock up the ass? I got a fucking kid, in case you fucking forgot. I ain’t no fucking homo.” 

“Mickey, I wasn’t being serio-”

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mickey glowered, tossing his arms across his chest. 

“It was an honest joke. I know you’re not...” _like me._ “Gay. It was a joke. I swear,” Ian did his best to placate, hands up in front of him in surrender. 

“I have to repeat myself and you’re gonna have to leave in a fucking hearst,” Mickey growled, pointing to the door. 

And Ian, with his open jaw and stinging eyes, with his aching chest and heavy limbs, stood up and carried himself back out the way he came. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured once he stood on the front step, but all he was met with was the harsh slam of the door. 

During the next few days, Ian’s life seemed to go back to the way that it used to be. Before. Before… everything - before Mickey, before blood - before ties around his neck and before monks on his feet. He went to work - by now there wasn’t as much talk about Hyde as there was before - from what he knew, the police were still investigating everything, trying to find him, but it seemed to have cooled off somewhat as there was no hope of finding him alive, and Ian had his doubts they would find him dead either. Mickey was talented. That was the one thing he knew for certain. 

Ian did struggle with it, though - at times - knowing that Mr. Hyde was nothing but a decent guy who had struggled with keeping his business afloat and gotten into bed with the wrong people. It could have happened to anybody - especially around these parts. But there was no use in dwelling on it. There was no use in dwelling on any of it, to be fair. Not Hyde, not Mickey, not the part of Ian that he felt himself reaching for, yet unable to grasp. 

All he could do was scoop. Cone or cup? 

Four whole days passed, and Ian found himself relaxing - settling back into his old routine with the assumption that he would never again hear from Mickey, or anyone who worked with him. 

Of course, Mickey was the kind of person that tended to show up when he least expected it, so walking in on him chatting with his siblings was so surprising that it somehow made a one-eighty, and ceased to surprise him at all. 

It was a hell of a deja vu, though. 

“Here he is, speak of the devil, huh?” Fiona cheered happily as Ian let the backdoor fall closed behind him. Ian cursed inwardly. He looked to Mickey, and then he looked to Lip, then to Fiona - something about the fading daylight outside intensified the warm kitchen light, and in turn amplified the kindness in her eyes. He felt bad. He should have just let Mickey kill him in the first place. 

“I gotta go, I got the nightshift, but it was good to see you, man,” Lip told Mickey, clasping his hand around Ian’s shoulder as a greeting before he passed him, the breeze of cold air from the open door causing the hairs on Ian’s lower back to stand up. 

“What are you doing here?” Ian questioned, doing his best to make sure his tone was even, natural - like he walked in to find a friend in his kitchen rather than… an enemy? 

“Figured I’d stop by, gotta talk to you. Your sister insisted I stay for dinner - thank you, Fiona,” he turned to her, smiling expertly. 

“We saved you some, it’s in the fridge,” she told Ian, who gave her a nod. 

“Thanks - Mickey let’s talk on the porch?”

Ian barely stopped himself from physically grabbing Mickey to tug him outside. 

“The fuck are you doing here? Thought I wasn’t gonna see you again after - “ he stopped himself with a sigh as Mickey looked down at the cigarette in his mouth, the tattooed knuckles blocking the wind as he got it lit. 

“After what, Fish? You called me a pillow biter?” 

“I didn’t call - “

“Doesn’t matter, Fish, ain’t why I’m here - got a job for ya.” 

“Fuck,” Ian sighed, and listened in detail of a body that needed to get disappeared, and real quick. 

✦✦✦

Mickey stood in the doorway of an office that wasn’t unlike Hyde’s; small and dusty and cramped. Ian stood over the body- a man, a good few years older than himself- with dark, purple lines painting the front and sides of his throat, a cable tied near the base of his neck. 

“First thing you’re gonna do?” Mickey asked, looking as relaxed as if he were at home with a beer in his hand and his uncomfortable stiff pants tossed aside (and that’s a thought that Ian found himself wondering where it even came from). 

“Uh, wrap... wrap it up?” 

“That a question or a statement?” 

“Statement. I’m gonna wrap it in the tarp.” 

Mickey nodded and watched as Ian pushed and pulled and grunted out a string of curses until the body was wrapped up like a disgusting little burrito before Ian tied off the ends with a length of rope that Mickey had provided. 

“Good. That’s good, Fish. What’s next?” 

“You know, it might all go a little faster if you’d just help me,” Ian grumbled and moved to drag the body past Mickey and into the trunk of his Caddy. 

“Ah, but then you wouldn’t learn, yeah? That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” 

“Well we’d get out of here a hell of a lot quicker if you would stand there with your thumb up your ass gawking at me like I’m some kind of sideshow freak,” Ian complained as he shouldered Mickey our of the way. 

“You are a sideshow freak, red. ‘Sides, we got all the time in the world. Not trying to get rid of me already, are you?” 

“Been trying since the first day I met you. You don’t seem to take the hint.” 

Mickey grinned and followed Ian slowly, only helping when it came to lifting and dumping before pointing back the way they came and instructed Ian to clean the office. 

“Check everything. Ceiling, floor, desk, walls- you see it, you fucking check it and wipe it down.”

“Gonna wipe you down,” Ian mumbled as he sank to his knees and began his methodical check. 

“What was that, mumbles? Something you wanna share with the class?” Mickey barked from his perch at the door. 

“Nothing, Mickey. Nothing at all.” 

“Better hope so,” Mickey warned, as he placed a smoke in between his lips. The lighter clicked, and silence lingered in between them for a good thirty seconds before Ian spoke up. 

“You’re not leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna leave you on your own ‘cause it did me so well last time,” he frowned, look on his face suggesting that Ian was the dumbest person he had ever laid eyes on. “Get to cleaning, fish - don’t drag your feet, body’s gonna start smelling real rank in a minute.” 

So Ian did as he said - cleaned the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the windows, the baseboards. He knew that Mickey was in the doorway, watching him like a hawk, but he didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to give Mickey the illusion that he was actually eager to please. 

“Good enough?” Ian asked nearly two hours later, and Mickey walked into the office, dividing his attention in any and all directions - up, down, left, right - then back up. Finally, he looked to Ian and gave him a nod. Not a ‘ _good job_ ’ nod, but rather a ‘ _yeah, it’s decent_ ’ nod. Ian sighed. “What now?” In the earlier days, Ian would have asked Mickey if he could go home now, but he wasn’t nearly naive enough for that now. 

“Now you’re gonna learn how to chain ‘em.”

Ian was mostly silent as Mickey drove the… three… of them - to a mostly abandoned bridge. Seeing as it was the middle of the night, no one would see them, but odds were that not a lot of people were around during the daytime either. 

Mickey stood to the side, giving Ian orders - he told him to put the tarp down onto the cracked asphalt, and then pull the body out of the trunk and onto it. Turns out a dead body was about ten times heavier than a live one - but he managed it. Closing his emotions off as much as possible, he wrapped the tarp around him, and secured it with several large, heavy chains. 

“Gonna need help,” Ian said when he was done, not looking away from the dark green, lumpy package. There was no way a single human being could toss a body over a railing, much less one wrapped in an additional hundred pounds of chains. Not even John Davis was strong enough for that. 

Between the two of them- Ian, with his naturally strong arms and tight core, Mickey with his muscles that were pronounced from years of hard labor- lifted the metal clad tarp from the body, and precariously carried it to the edge of Mickey’s favorite bridge. 

“Any last words?” Ian asked, hoping if he lightened the mood even just a fraction that he wouldn’t feel like such a colossal failure as a human being. He was awful, and Mickey was awful, and Mickey’s whole family was awful. But maybe, if Ian was just doing what he had to- maybe Mickey was, too. And it was the only thought that he clung to as Mickey nodded and bid farewell to this ‘ _piece of shit._ ’ 

✦✦✦

“You ever feel like...” Ian sighed once they were back in Mickey’s car, a lit cigarette in each of their hands. “Like, this isn’t what you signed up for?” 

“What’s that?” Mickey asked as he flicked an ash through his open window. “Dumping bodies? Nah man, that’s pretty much organized crime 101, isn’t it?” 

“No, I mean- I guess- y’know. Are you... okay. With doing this type of stuff?” 

Mickey chanced a look over to Ian, the flash of passing street light illuminating his eyes and letting them fall back into darkness. Ian thought for a moment that Mickey might have been the most intimidating person he’d ever met, and he regretted asking, but then Mickey drug his thumb over his bottom lip and let out a deep breath. 

“You saw my house, right?” Ian nodded. “Alright, well, I didn’t have that when I was growing up. I had a shitty dad and a dead mom. Didn’t even get to eat a lot of the time...” he trailed off, and Ian felt his heart pang in his chest at the thought of a tiny little hungry boy. “... my clothes were more holes than threads. Had fucking roaches and rats and god knows what else in every fucking corner of my house. Didn’t get baths because we didn’t have access to water. And if you even think for a second I had even one fucking toy, well you’re about as dense as you look.” 

Ian stared at him, watched him get lost in thought and caught up in his story, and he felt something for Mickey that he never had before; like Mickey was a real person with problems and hardships that he had to work through. Like he wasn’t just some made man who liked to play with dead people. 

“Yevgeny- me and his mom were never gonna work out. And that’s fine. But he’s not gonna grow up like I did. And I have to get my hands a little dirty to keep food in his belly and a good, clean roof over his head... then I’ll bust every fucking skull from here to California if I have to.” 

“Okay,” Ian nodded. What else could he say?

“So no, I don’t particularly love all the parts that make this shit up. But I love my family and I would do anything for them.”

“So you weren’t a part of it until Yevgeny was born?” Ian couldn’t help but ask as the bridge faded in the rearview mirror. 

“Interview’s over, Fish.” There wasn’t too much malice in the tone of his voice; rather, it was simple, clear - ‘ _that’s enough for now_ ’. Ian decided that it would be within his own best interest to accept the line in the sand. So they finished their cigarettes before he spoke up again. 

“When do I get to be a part of it?” He chose not to turn the words over in his head too much, didn’t want to overthink it - didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that Mickey’s blackmail had been an excuse for him to hide behind until now. Mickey hummed in question. “I’ve been doing this for months, I’ve proven myself, don’t you think? Where’s my roof?” 

“Tired of being a human ice cream scooper?” Mickey asked, and if Ian didn’t know better, he would think there was a hint of amusement dancing across the words. Ian didn’t answer. He needed Mickey to know that he was serious. This was not something he would be doing forever without getting anything out of it. He wouldn’t let Mickey wave him off by cracking a joke. “Being a soldier’s a lot different, fish. Ain’t the same as being an associate.” 

Mickey didn’t move his attention away from the road ahead, and Ian could feel a cloud of annoyance forming in his stomach. 

“I’m not an idiot,”

“Know you ain’t - if you were you woulda’ been chained a long time ago.” Ian swallowed - more in frustration than anything else. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

Mickey sighed, pulling the car into the empty Howard’s parking lot. To Ian’s surprise, he didn’t kick Ian out, but instead he shut the engine off and turned to look at him, eyebrows raised - a look on his face that Ian had never quite seen before. Whatever he was about to say, it was serious. 

“First of all, you ain’t Ukrainian.”

“That’s a problem?”

“Ukrainian mob recruits Ukrainians, Italian mob recruits Italians. Russian, Russian.”

“Who’s even gonna know?” Ian asked, to which Mickey promptly looked up to his head of bright red hair, and then down to his eyes again, silently proving his point. Ian rolled his eyes. 

“Even if you got a distant Ukrainian relative somewhere, or if I convinced the men upstairs you’re worth it - this ain’t a thing you do on a whim, Fish.” 

If Ian didn’t know better, he would wonder whether Mickey was warning him, if he wanted him to run away. 

“Blood in, blood out, man.” Ian frowned in question. “You wanna get in, you gotta kill someone, you gotta take a blood oath. As for getting out, it ain’t happening unless you’re dead.” 

“You’re talking to me like I’m a child,” Ian pointed out. 

“You ain’t a child, you…” Mickey sighed and broke the eye contact, looking around the parking lot as if he were searching for a box of patience. “You’re a Fish,” he shrugged. “New, naive and vulnerable.” 

“I’m not -“

“Yeah, yeah - “ Mickey waved him off. “Look, I think you and me both gotta take some time to think it over, okay? This is- Ian, this isn’t a fucking game, man. You’re young. You got time to chase tail and make a life for yourself.” 

“You’ve got a life. You ‘chased tail’,” Ian said with air quotes that made Mickey roll his eyes. “You’ve got a kid that you spend all your time worrying about. I could have that, too... if I wanted it, anyway.” 

“What,” Mickey smirked, clearly trying to change the subject, “you don’t want the white picket American dream?” 

Ian chewed his lip and turned his gaze to his window, eyes dancing along the empty parking lot, trying desperately to find something worthwhile to look at. It didn’t work, so instead, he turned back to Mickey and answered as best as he could- by shrugging his shoulders and taking a drag of his cigarette. 

“You don’t want this, Fish,” Mickey told him quietly once was sure that Ian wasn’t going to answer him. 

“I don’t have anything else going for me, and I never will. This might be the only choice I have.” 

Mickey took in a deep breath and ran his hand over his stubbly face, up and back down again, rough enough to push his nose with the force of it. 

“Go home, Ian. Take a look at your family. Really fucking think about it, man. Not just about the money. About- Jesus, think about what you did tonight. Then come talk to me about it.” 

Ian only ever thought about his family. That wasn’t the issue. So he played the only card he had left. 

“Mickey... knowing what I know... would they even let me out at this point?” 

Mickey didn’t have an answer for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "You speak only one language, and you speak constantly, even when I threaten you. You don't seem smart."  
> "I don't agree." 
> 
> (Please note the added warning. This story will include a major character death, but don't worry - it is not Ian or Mickey. We have also changed the rating from Mature to Explicit. Neither of these will be significant any time soon, but we want to keep people prepared for what's to come.)


	8. eight

Ian was stubborn. But he was not dumb - like Mickey said, had he been, he wouldn’t have made it this long. So he did as he said, and he took a while to think - to wonder, to consider. 

As he brushed his teeth the next morning, he pictured himself in the future, having to lie to friends and family. As he flipped the third pancake, and pushed it to the side to clear space for more batter, he thought of the feeling he got in his chest every time that he had felt the police breathing down his neck. As he scooped ice cream into the mixer and added the milk, he wondered what the right decision was. 

By the time that he made it home, he had made a decision. He wouldn’t - Mickey was right, as much as Ian wished that he wasn’t. This was a big decision. Ian had liked being on the right side of the law for those few years - he didn’t want to be thirty, forty, and fifty, still running from the police. 

“Why is it so dark in here?” Ian questioned as he entered in through the back door, greeted by a kitchen littered with candles. 

“They shut the electricity off,” Fiona sighed, where she stood, leaned over the kitchen island, the counter covered in bills and final notices. 

“I thought we were doing okay?” 

“Not anymore. I had to prioritize the mortgage and the water bill, we can’t live without those - Liam’s shoes had a hole in the sole, I couldn’t let him walk around like that - it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

“Fiona,” Ian sighed. “I’m sure I could -“

“You’re working as hard as you can,” she shook her head, placing her palm against his cheek. “I know you are. It’s just a rough time - it’s been rough before, we always figure it out. Don’t worry.” 

After that, she gathered up the papers and went upstairs with a reminder for Ian to blow the candles out before he went to bed. 

Ian sighed, landing on one of the barstools. So much for being on the right side of the law. He had a chance to make money - quite a bit. He couldn’t say no. 

He laid in his bed that night, replaying over and over his conversation with Mickey, telling himself he had to, had to, had to. The risk was high, but the reward would be higher if he could see his sister worry free or his brother with a nice pair of new shoes- and then some. Debbie and Carl could get into better schools- and Liam too, when the time came. 

He would have been lying to himself, though, if he said he wasn’t worried. He wasn’t a violent man, at least when he didn’t need to be. He was good, he thought. A good man. A dependable man- and that’s really what it came down to. He was dependable, and he owed it to himself to keep being dependable. Leave it to a Gallagher to self sacrifice for the rest. 

✦✦✦

Ian sat across from Mickey in their usual booth at the diner. Mickey, for once, had a full plate of breakfast in the form of a waffle big enough to cover the entire thing. Ian, however, sat with nothing in front of him except for a complimentary cup of burnt black coffee. 

“You not hungry, Fish?” Mickey asked around a mouthful of sticky syrup. 

Ian shrugged his shoulders and took a scalding sip. Truth was, he was starving. Truth also was that he couldn’t afford the seventh five cents it was to grab a bite, instead saving every penny he had to go toward the electric. 

“You wanna get something, just grab a waitress, man,” Mickey shrugged as if it were that simple. To anyone else, maybe it would have been. 

“I can’t... I can’t afford it,” Ian mumbled and let his eyes fall to his fingers. 

“What, like you don’t got any cash on you? S’fine, I’ll front it.” 

“No,” Ian sighed and leaned back in his seat, looking anywhere but at Mickey, the weight of his troubles settling heavily on his freckled shoulders. “I can’t afford it.” 

“Oh,” Mickey nodded and set his fork down with a clatter. 

“Oh,” Ian agreed. “Mick... I think. No, I know. I, uh, I need in. My family... we might not make the winter if I don’t start pulling more in. So if... so if you aren’t gonna give me a cut, you gotta let me out. I need time to find another job. Maybe two more. Maybe the barges...” he trailed off, trying to reason with himself. Trying to find another way out- one that could maybe help him scrape a little bit more together, but really, there wasn’t any other way. At least not one that would keep him from living paycheck to paycheck and breaking his back all the while. 

Mickey sighed, looking down at his plate of food as if the waffle suddenly turned his stomach upside down. Then he looked around the sparsely crowded diner, making sure that there were no people close by. He placed his elbows onto the table, leaning slightly closer. 

“Meant what I said, Fish. It ain’t my decision. Hell, even if you walked in a full blooded Ukrainian, they ain’t gonna let you in if you ain’t gonna be of good use. Gotta be loyal, gotta be a good liar, gotta be able to take a lion down with nothin’ but your hands, but you also gotta know when it’s in your best interest to keep your trap shut and listen.” 

“I know,” Ian confirmed. “I got what it takes, Mickey.” Mickey looked at him for another second before he went back to his waffle, silence hanging in between them. To Ian, it felt a lot like a test. This was one of those times when it was in his best interest not to poke, not to bother. 

“I don’t know if you got what it takes,” Mickey admitted, swallowing down the bite. “Think you could someday, but you got a lot to learn.” 

“Mickey -“

“And if you fuck up, it ain’t just your ass on the line if I vouch for you, it’s mine, too, man.” 

“I can do it - whatever I need to do,” Ian did his best to convince him. 

Once again, Mickey let his fork land on the table, and he looked at Ian. The eye contact didn’t break for at least a full minute - it wasn’t an uncomfortable kind of eye contact, nor the kind when you weren’t sure what the other one was thinking. Ian knew. Mickey was trying to figure out if Ian could take down a lion. If he was worth the risk of putting himself on the line. 

“I’ll bring it up - no promises, Fish. You got that?” Ian nodded. “Good.” Then Mickey turned to the waitress who came back from the kitchen to clean the table next to them. “Dorothy? Fish wants pancakes,” he nodded towards Ian. “With bacon on the side.” 

✦✦✦

A few days later, Ian was back in one of Mickey’s cars - not the most expensive one, of course, he hadn’t earned quite that much trust just yet. He sat on the roof of the same parking garage that Mickey had taken him to the first time they had followed Petro. Without much mental or physical stimulation, he sank back into the seat, and let his thoughts drift to Mickey, and what he was going to say when he suggested Ian he brought in. He hoped that he would manage to convince them that he was a strong enough asset, but Ian wasn’t so sure - Mickey was strong and assertive, but he was going up against the people he had learnt it from. 

Suddenly, Ian sat up straighter, reaching for the heavy camera in the passenger seat. It made a loud mechanical clicking noise as he put it up to his eye and aimed the lens at the person coming out of the precinct. 

Petro. Next to a man dressed in uniform. The thing they had been suspecting for weeks. With proof in hand, Ian pulled the car back into the road and headed towards the diner. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant end for Petro, that much was sure. But perhaps Ian had earned himself some points.

Ian’s body thrummed with anticipation the nearer he got, both excited that he, Ian motherfucking Gallagher, broke the fucking case. He, Fish, Irish extraordinaire, was the one after months of sitting up late and getting up early and watching this guy with an eagle eye was the one to get the proof they were looking for. He was good. He was great. 

But the other part of him was fucking sick with it. Yeah, he found the guy‘s secret- the guy who by all intents and purposes was scummy- but, and it’s a very big but, there would have to be some serious repercussions for him. Petro crossed a line that he shouldn’t have been anywhere close enough to even see, and yet he danced his way right over it. Mickey, let alone his family, wouldn’t take kindly at all to his misgivings. 

Was Ian going to be responsible for what happened next- was he going to have to clean up Petro’s crime scene? That’s what he was, right? A glorified fucking maid? Was his beating- his death- going to be on Ian’s hands? 

But then he thought of his own family, sitting at home in the dark, reading and cooking and living by candlelight. He thought of his older brother, who was trying to make his way through school. He didn’t need the added stress. He thought of Liam, with his shabby hand me downs and shoes with holes in them. He thought of Debbie and Carl who should be worried about school starting back up and what their friends were doing- not how they would make it through the winter. And then, then he thought of Fiona. Fiona, who had the weight of everyone else’s problems resting on her delicate shoulders. Fiona, who never seemed to rest after picking up petty job after petty job to put food on the table. Fiona, who raised him and cared for him like their own mother should have. 

And then he thought of the potential money he could make- the money that could just maybe erase all of the worry and that stress away. And the decision wasn’t so hard anymore. 

As he entered the diner, he nodded to a waitress he hadn’t yet met; still an older woman with grey hair and crinkled eyes. He didn’t know her name, nor did he know what she did or did not know, but he had to ask her anyway-

“Excuse me, ma’am. Would you happen to know if, uh, if Mick-, um, Mikhailo is in?” He fumbled through his words, nerves eating at his guts like a buzzard on a corpse. 

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” she smiled warmly. “You just have a seat and I’ll give a ring downstairs. Can I get you anything while you wait?” 

He shook his head but thanked her anyway before sliding into one of the vinyl booths and tapped his fingers in a jittery energy against the table top. He waited... and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Forever long of staring at the door that concealed the hallway that led to the basement. And finally. There he was. 

“Ay, Fish out of water. Looking a little green around the gills,” Mickey laughed at himself. “What’s up with you?” Ian swallowed before placing the heavy camera onto the table, pushing it towards Mickey. 

“We got him.” At that, the dark eyebrows arched, Mickey’s eyes hosting a flash of something Ian couldn’t quite place. Pride? Perhaps. 

“Yeah?” Ian gave him a nod in confirmation. Mickey leaned back into the booth, reaching for his pack of lucky strikes, placing one in between his lips. “You know…” he mumbled as he looked down, the lighter clicking before he got it, inhaling the smoke. “These any good, they might be your card in.” 

“Really?” Ian questioned, sounding a lot more like a young child than he had intended. “Did you talk to them?” Mickey shrugged at that, taking another drag of the cigarette. 

“They ain’t on board, but y’know…” he trailed off, gesturing towards the camera in between them. Ian nodded.

“How… not on board?” Ian asked, despite knowing that annoying Mickey with questions he didn’t want to answer rarely got him any place good. Ian couldn’t help it - he wanted in, yes, but he also needed to know if it wasn’t going to happen. He needed to find another job - a job that paid him enough to keep the electricity on. Or rather get the electricity back on. “What did they say?”

Mickey breathed out some of the smoke through his nose. 

“Я, мабуть, кинув тебе на голову в дитинстві, що ти думаєш? У якому світі гарна ідея дозволити випадковій ірландській дитині зруйнувати нашу сім'ю? Він уже занадто багато знає. Ви нікчемний ідіот, відповідь - ні. Вийди з мого кабінету. Тепер.” 

“Doesn’t sound good,” Ian let him know, honestly. He didn’t know nearly enough Ukrainian to understand the gist of it, but he did know the words for no, stupid, and Irish, and they were all in there. 

“Give me some time, never thought they were gonna agree the first time I asked, I got ya.” Mickey shook his head, stubbing out the butt of the cigarette on the table top. Ian tried to forbid his brain from playing and re-playing the last three words over and over inside of his head. Tried to convince himself that he didn’t like them. Didn’t like hearing them. Didn’t want to hear them again. Didn’t want to hear them in a different situation. A situation a lot more private. God damn it, he needed to get himself under control. No. Fuck. “Run a long and scoop some ice cream, Fish,” Mickey said, standing up, reaching for the camera. “This gonna go a whole lot smoother if you ain’t in the room.” Then he headed for the basement door. 

✦✦✦

“They want a meeting.” 

Ian stood stock still, hand on the front gate as he looked up to Mickey sitting on his front steps. He was confused, understandably so, having just come from a shift and not expecting any word so soon. He processed, and processed, with each second that ticked by his heart beat just a little faster until it was a full blown hurricane blustering in his chest. 

“A meeting? They want...” 

“A meeting, Fish,” Mickey confirmed, elbows on his knees and hands tangled haphazardly together in front of him. It was weird, Ian thought momentarily, that Mickey didn’t have cigarette burning between his fingers. He almost didn’t recognize him without the filter of smoke billowing around him. And then he thought that maybe Mickey thought it would be impolite to deliver the news of your own passing with a fucking Lucky Strike there to take the edge off. 

“Are they... mad? At me?” Pathetic. That’s how he sounded to his own ears, and he could only imagine what Mickey must have thought of him. Weak. Whiny. Little boy. 

“Why would they be mad at you?” 

“You’re always mad at me,” Ian told him morosely, and internally kicked himself again for sounding so ridiculous. 

“No I’m not,” Mickey said simply, and Ian would be lying if he said he didn’t feel relief flood his senses when Mickey finally, fucking finally, pulled a cigarette from his pack tucked neatly in the breast pocket of his jacket and light it up. 

“You always sound mad,” Ian pushed, feeling like if he didn’t say something, anything at all, he might implode. 

“That’s cause you’re an annoying little shit,” Mickey shrugged. And then he fucking winked, and Ian’s head spun, nearly knocking him down with a dizzy wave of... something. 

“So...” he fumbled, “a meeting. When?” 

“Immediately. You ready to go or you just wanna stand there looking like a goof?” 

Ian scoffed, like this wasn’t a huge moment in his life. Mickey acted like it was just an ordinary day- not one that would either make or break Ian. 

“Why’re you always rattling my cage?”

“Mostly cause it’s fun,” Mickey smirked and shouldered past Ian to his waiting car. Ian was about to head to the other side and get into the passenger seat, but before he had the change, Mickey opened one of the doors and pulled out a stack of folded clothes, throwing them Ian’s way. Ian barely managed to catch them, saving them from tumbling to the dirty asphalt below. “Get dressed.” Mickey motioned to the house. “Three minutes.”

Ian nodded and turned on his heels to follow the order. He had to admit he was happy that he wouldn’t have to change in the car like he usually did - standing in the bathroom made it a lot easier to make sure he got the suspenders on the right way, and that he didn’t scuff up the surface of the leather monks - he wasn’t sure how much they cost, but they couldn’t be cheap. 

With thirty seconds or so to spare, he headed back down the staircase, nearly bumping into Lip. 

“I saw Mickey outside, where you guys headed?” 

“Tell you later,” Ian lied, but flashed his brother a smile simple enough that he wouldn’t end up worrying about him. 

Once Ian made it outside, he and Mickey got into the car without a word exchanged. As Mickey started driving, he lit up another cigarette, and handed it over to Ian after the first drag. Ian accepted it without a second thought. 

“So…” Ian started as he handed the cigarette back. “Who are they?” He asked, despite knowing better. “Not just your uncle?” He knew that Mickey still didn’t appreciate having to answer millions of questions, but the more time that passed, the more he was willing to tell Ian about the family - slowly but surely he had started to notice that Mickey wasn’t as reluctant on that front. Almost as if Ian had… earned some more information now and again. 

“Pops, too,” Mickey mumbled around the cigarette, before handing it back to Ian. “He ain’t as easy goin’ as my uncle Aleks, so you might wanna keep your trap shut.” Ian had already been planning on ‘keeping his trap shut’ and he wasn’t too sure how harsh someone would have to be in order to make Aleksandr seem ‘easy going’ but he didn’t voice either of those thoughts. Instead he nodded. “Keep the clothes, by the way,” Mickey said then, stealing the smoke right out of Ian’s hand. 

“Keep...?” 

The thing about it was, Ian wasn’t used to getting things handed to him. Everything, from their bills to the cigarettes he sucked into his lungs, Ian worked for. He took extra and weekend shifts. He worked over time. He went without sleep and without food so he could work more and more. He didn’t come from a family that handed out gifts of any sort, not really. Aside from maybe a knitted sweater at Christmas, Ian didn’t have people in his life to just toss things his way- especially not something so extravagant. 

“What, you think those long ass pants are gonna fit me, a normal sized human being? You’re built like fucking Sasquatch,” Mickey beamed, apparently happy that he could fit in a few insults to his tirade. 

Ian didn’t take the bait. 

“No, but it’s... Mickey, these are really nice clothes. I- Jesus...” Ian sighed and looked down at the crisp white button up and pleated pants. If he were a church going man, he could show up and outshine anyone else in those threads- and would probably be the talk of Canaryville for having done so. 

“Damn right they’re nice,” Mickey smirked and glanced at Ian from the corner of his eye. “I’ve got good taste.” 

“Yeah. But. Mickey. Why?” 

Mickey let out an exasperated groan, clearly done with this line of questioning; probably done with Ian in general, but there were other people involved, and Mickey had to show up with Ian in tow. 

“Already told you. Can’t have you looking like shit if you’re gonna be running with me. And I know your ass can’t afford it. So just, drop it. Last time I ever do something nice. Fuck.”

Ian looked over at Mickey, despite knowing that Mickey wouldn’t tear his eyes away from the road ahead of him. Thankful for it, too, because it gave Ian the chance to keep his eyes on him for a moment longer than he would have accepted. 

“Thank you,” Ian finally said, nothing but pure appreciation in his voice. He couldn’t help it - he had never experienced anything like this before. 

Mickey just waved him off, and they didn’t speak for the rest of the ride. 

Despite Ian going to the diner quite often nowadays, the level below was not within his typical radius. As usual, Mickey greeted the waitresses, and even though Ian was used to it now, hearing him be so polite, and hearing the admiration in their voices would probably always amaze him. It was such a complete contrast to who he typically portrayed himself as. 

Ian followed Mickey down into the basement, and he couldn’t help the way his tongue seemed to dry out, stomach turning as he was once again surrounded by the intimidating surroundings. 

Mickey greeted a few people that they walked past, and though Ian didn’t understand a word, he could somehow tell which people were above Mickey and which were below. One man looked to be ten years older or so, yet he gave Mickey a respectful nod. The next man they walked past didn’t seem to spare Mickey a second look, but Mickey greeted him anyway, with a very similar nod. 

Finally, they made it to the door of the office where Ian had first met Aleksandr. As Mickey knocked confidently, Ian tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks - it felt strange - knowing that they were his. He had never had anything like them before. He didn’t even want to think about how much the monks on his feet cost. 

After a few words of Ukrainian shared, the door opened. 

“Ah,” the man previously introduced to Ian as Mickey’s uncle Aleks nodded when his eyes landed on Ian. “The Irishman. Come in, come in.” 

Ian went, of course he went, but he went on shaking legs that seemed at once too weak for his body weight. He shook, and just as he felt like he might crumple in a pathetic fucking heap on the ground, there was a subtle hand on his lower back, pushing him forward. It was gone just as quickly as it came, and when he looked to Mickey, Mickey strode past him and made himself comfortable in one of the few plush looking brown leather chairs. 

Ian sat on the edge of his seat, eyes on his folded hands and tried his best to steady his breath. He didn’t want to come off as weak as he felt in that moment, so he also squared off his shoulders and squared his jaw, but he figured it was probably a lost cause. 

“You didn’t tell me he was Frank Gallagher’s bastard kid,” the only man in the room who Ian has yet to meet spat. Ian chanced a peak up, just a tiny little look, but the malice in the other man’s eyes made him wish that he hadn’t. 

“Gallagher’s alright, pops. Told you I can vouch for him. Does what he’s told,” Mickey spoke up, and Ian was infinitely grateful for his words. Maybe they would end up being the difference in life and death. 

“подивись на нього. він буде виділятися, як зламаний чортів великий палець. не можу вивезти його куди завгодно, якщо ви сподіваєтесь, що його не вдасться зробити,” the man, pops, yelled. 

Mickey sat forward in his chair, and folded his hands just as Ian had. Respectful, but trying his best to seem like he knew what he was talking about. 

“а може він змішується. Він не такий, як ми. не може бути прив’язаний до нас, якщо він не є українським,” Mickey said, his eyebrows doing just as much of the talking as his mouth. 

“God dammit, Mickey. This whole situation is fucked,” he answered in English, and Ian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from agreeing with him. “залиште це вам, щоб привезти додому бродячого. завжди були занадто м'якими для вашого блага. може бути, навіть, ебаною дівчиною.” 

Mickey scowled at that, a look that at once looked offended and hurt, but he wiped it away quickly, replacing it with something a little more sarcastic. 

“дякую, тато. я розумію ти пишаєшся мною,” he sneered, and Ian so wished he knew anything at all that they were saying. To know if he could help or if he should quietly excuse himself. 

“не ходи вкладаючи слова в рот, хлопче,” Mickey’s dad answered back, but before Mickey could say anything else, Aleks clapped his hands together to get there attention as he stood from behind his desk. 

“Now isn’t the time for this, gentlemen,” he chided easily. “We have other things to discuss. Mr. Gallagher may have done us a real favor, here.” 

Mickey’s father grunted at that. 

“Any one of the capo’s could’a caught the rat, boy just happened to hold the trap.” 

“Terentius,” Aleksandr said, his tone helping the unfamiliar word - name? - sound a lot like a warning. “Sit down,” he said then. His eyes were on Ian, but the only person in the room not in a chair was Mickey’s father. He let out another grunt and then obeyed his brother’s order, sinking into the second leather chair behind the desk. “So I hear you wish to become a soldier.” It wasn’t a question, yet it seemed he was expecting a response. Mickey helped out. 

“Yeah. Gallagher’s-“ He was immediately cut off, not by a sound, but rather by the small movement of his uncle’s hand lifting from the desk, his palm facing his nephew. His eyes never moved from Ian, and he didn’t need to say a single word in order to say a lot. He didn’t want to hear Ian through Mickey - he needed to know who Ian was. 

Once Ian understood that he was expected to speak, it seemed his throat immediately dried out, any and all words he had ever learned completely vanishing from his brain. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, under the two men’s gazes, one a lot harsher than the other, perhaps it was only a few seconds. Though it felt like a lifetime. 

The thing that brought him confidence was the front of Mickey’s calf brushing against the back of his own. Ian knew that it was a replacement for a hand on his shoulder - but the remaining two men in the room couldn’t know that Ian was nervous enough to need encouragement. Even through the layers of fabric, it somehow brought Ian enough confidence to speak. 

“I do,” he began, making sure to keep eye contact with Aleksandr in order to appear a lot more calm than he actually was. “I believe I could be of use.” He wasn’t sure what he should say, so he figured that keeping with something simple at the very least wouldn’t get him thrown out of the office. Or worse.

“You will not be brought in before you prove yourself,” Aleksandr said, and the words caused his brother to turn to him, eyes filled with more rage than before - which Ian hadn’t thought possible. 

“Ти насправді не вважаєш це, чи не так?” At that, Aleksandr didn’t spare him a glance, but rather put his hand up in a very similar motion that he had given Mickey a moment before. A part of Ian found a slight admiration for this man - able to silence the two men without raising his voice. He wouldn’t be able to unless they held admiration for him, as well. Ian didn’t know which one of the two older men was officially above the other - if one was - but one thing was for sure - Aleksandr was the one who made the final call in any situation. There wasn’t a question about that. 

“What do I need to do?” Ian asked. 

Aleksandr sat back in his chair, the rub of fabric on leather squeaking heavily, sending vibrations through the air and seemingly up Ian’s back. The soft hair on his neck stood at attention, as did the hair of his arms and legs; goosebumps, his mind supplied unnecessarily. He nearly laughed at that- a panic response, he supposed. 

“You found the rat,” Aleksandr spoke, hands folded beneath his chin, pointer fingers both pressed against the stained pink of his lips. 

“Yes, sir,” Ian agreed, feeling all the while like he may pass out. Mickey’s leg pressed harder against his, and he pushed back at it with matched strength. Infinitely grateful- that was the only way he could describe his feelings for Mickey in that moment (all thoughts of it being Mickey’s fault that he was there in the first place banished to the back of his mind). 

“You found the rat. You exterminate him.” 

Both Mickey and his father spoke at once, in loud, fast succession. Both spewing their words in Ukrainian- or, at least, Ian thought it probably was. He couldn’t understand them. He probably wouldn’t understand them if they were English, either, he thought, because the ringing in his ears grew to a deafening level- and his heart beat provided the kick drum to the soundtrack of his life ending. 

His vision blurred at the edges as everything seemed to move in slow motion for a moment. The other three men continued their heated discussion as Ian spiraled down deeper and deeper into himself. He knew that this was a possibility. Of course he did. But so soon? It was moving fast. Too fast. This would kill him- at least the version of him that he woke up as that morning. 

How much would it change him? Would he be a totally new person, or would he still be able to look in the mirror and find some semblance of himself still there. Did Mickey change? Was Mickey someone else one day out of the blue? He would ask. He had to ask. Mickey would tell him. Mickey would help him make sense of the whole mess. 

Mickey. 

He turned to look at him, with his reddened face and bloodshot eyes. Still, Ian couldn’t hear a word that he was saying. But he could see the way he sat on the edge of his seat, hands gripped tight at the edge of the desk- pressure white and pulsing. He looked... scary, in a beautiful sort of way. In the sort of way that in that moment, he was all Ian wanted to look at. His anchor as he drifted off to sea. What a crazy, crazy insane thought, Ian mused to himself. 

He caught himself smiling, just a touch. Just the corners of his lips slightly raised. Nothing more. 

Mickey turned to face him, his words stuttering mid sentence, as his eyebrows furled down on themselves. His mouth moved as he looked to Ian, growing more insistent as he continued to talk. Ian didn’t know what he was saying. Didn’t care. Couldn’t be bothered to know. Until. 

Mickey reached out and slapped him hard across the face. 

“Get it together! Jesus! Are you even fucking listening?” Mickey barked, and finally, Ian came back into his own head.  “See?” Mickey continued as he turned back to his uncle. “He’s not ready! He can’t do this!”

For some reason, those words activated a reflex response from Ian. 

“The fuck I’m not!” The room was silent after that, the three men staring him down, a few eyebrows raised, as if they were wondering whether he would take it back. Ian looked from Mickey, to his father, and then to Aleksandr. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice, my apologies,” Ian sank back into his chair, and swallowed. “But I think I can do it.” 

“Oh, he _thinks_ he can,” Mickey laughed bitterly. Once again, he was silenced by his uncle’s hand in the air. 

“You think you can, or you know you can?” Aleksandr questioned. 

“I know I can,” Ian stated. Lie. It was an ugly, bold faced, pure lie. But what choice did he have? It wasn’t as if he could walk away, practice, then come back and fill in a job application when he felt more ready. So no. He was not sure - in what possible world could he be? But he needed to prove himself, he had to get in. And this was his chance. “I’ll do it.”

A part of Ian still felt like an outsider to his own body, and his own mind. His heart was still beating a tad too fast, and he could feel his breakfast wanting to make its way back up his throat. 

He was also well aware of the way that Mickey was staring at him, but Ian couldn’t tell what he was thinking, because Ian wasn’t looking back. He wasn’t willing to tear his eyes off of Aleksandr, and wouldn't allow him to believe that he wasn’t able to handle the stare down. 

Mickey’s father mumbled something under his breath that Ian didn’t understand, but it mostly seemed as if he was muttering to himself. 

“Very well,” Aleksandr finally broke the silence. “You go out, do what needs to be done, and bring me proof. You have a week.”

“Proof?” Ian asked, fully aware of the fact that he sounded like an idiot. “Pictures?” 

“No,” Aleksandr said the one syllable word slower than Ian would think possible, and then he braided his fingers together, dragging Ian’s attention down to the two missing.

“I understand,” Ian stated, cheeks stinging with the need to vomit. “I’ll get it done.”

“Sure you will,” Mickey’s father scoffed, but then Aleksandr repeated the words, not an ounce of sarcasm in his tone. 

After that, Ian followed Mickey out of the office, through the rest of the basement, up the staircase, through the diner before fresh air finally filled their lungs. Mickey leaned back against the facade of the old building, and lit a cigarette. Usually he would offer Ian one, but this time he didn’t. Instead he stood there, inhaling the tobacco as if Ian didn’t exist. 

“What’s wrong?” Ian couldn’t help but break the silence. Mickey shook his head, smoke escaping out through his nose, eyes still staring out across the sparse parking lot as the streetlights flickered to life. 

“Nothin’” 

“Bullshit.” Mickey finally directed his attention at him, frown lines deep in his forehead, cigarette in between his lips. “You think I can’t do it.” 

Mickey sighed, smoke following the sound as he pushed himself up from the wall in order to stand straight. 

“Nah, I think you can do it,” he shrugged. “That don’t mean I want it for you.” Ian frowned in question, and Mickey rolled his eyes, looking around before taking half a step closer so that he could lower his voice. “It ain’t like this shit’s easy. It ain’t easy doing it, it ain’t easy going to bed after and it sure as hell ain’t easy waking up the next day.” 

“You do it,” Ian muttered petulantly, and scuffed his shoe across the gritty concrete before remembering that the shoes on his feet probably cost more than his yearly salary. He tucked his fists tightly into the pocket of his trousers and hugged over in on himself, feeling the pull of his suspenders on his shoulders. 

“Yeah, Fish,” Mickey exhaled. “I do it. But that don’t mean I want to.” 

“Why do you, then? Why not just... leave?” 

Mickey scoffed and looked to Ian like he couldn’t believe the words even fell from his twisted lips. Like Ian couldn’t have said something worse if he’d tried. 

“Where would I go, Ian? My family is here. My family is involved. This is my life. I don’t have a choice, man. This is it for me.” 

“But-”

“My kid is here. My kid makes it okay. I go out and I do this shit, but guess what? I go home to a little boy who looks at me like the sun shines out my fucking ass. He calls me ‘Daddy,’ and tells me he loves me. And he fucking hugs me like I’m not a fucking monster. He makes me human, Fish. Who’s gonna keep you human, huh? Who?” 

Ian locked his jaw as he mulled over Mickey’s words. He had his family... but... were they enough? Would they hug him and tell him he’s a good person? Would they see blood on his clothes and look past it? Past the gore and just see... Ian? 

He knew they wouldn’t. 

Before Ian had really thought it through, he heard the question leave his lips without his brain’s permission. 

“You?” Mickey’s forehead creased with confusion. “Can you do it? Keep an eye on me? Make sure I don’t go off the deep end?” Mickey seemed to think it over, but then he shook his head, dropping the cigarette butt onto the asphalt, stomping it out with the monks. 

“Two monsters don’t make an angel, Fish. And you don’t just need someone to tell you you’re human - you gotta find a way to feel it.” Ian ignored the voice in the back of his head that whispered lowly, barely loud enough for Ian to register: ‘ _ But you do, Mickey. You do make me feel. _ ’ Of course he didn’t say that - he didn’t even let the thought enter his mainstream consciousness.  “Whatever,” Mickey shrugged, then. “You’ll figure it out.” Then he was heading back inside. 

✦✦✦

Later that night, Ian was standing beneath the weak trickle of the shower, and he couldn’t help but wonder how he would do it. Despite how grim and disturbing the thoughts were, they were ones he needed to get used to. What would be the best way to… take care of it?

As he got out and used his towel across his damp skin, he continued to mull it over - gun? Loud. Knife? Messy. Poison? He couldn’t do that, he would have to get close to him for a long amount of time. That option was out. A part of him wanted to ask Mickey for advice, but that very much seemed like something a fish would do. 

And Ian was determined to work his way up onto dry land. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "Did I drop you on your head as a child? What are you thinking? In what world is it a good idea to allow a random Irish child to ruin our family? He already knows too much. You are a worthless idiot, the answer is no. Get out of my office. Now." 
> 
> "Look at him. He will stand out like a broken devil's thumb. You can't take him anywhere, and that's if he even knows how to work."   
> "Or maybe he blends in. He's not like us. He can't be tied to us if he's not Ukrainian."   
> "Leave it to you to bring home a stray. Always been too soft for your own good. Maybe even a fucking girl."   
> "Thank you, dad. I understand you're proud of me."   
> "Don't go putting words in my mouth, boy."
> 
> "You're not really considering this, are you?"


	9. nine

Ian didn’t sleep, not really, and not for two full nights after... whatever that was - the meeting that uprooted him as a normal, everyday person. The person that took him from Ian Gallagher - son, brother, friend... and made him into Ian Gallagher, hired hand. 

He stared, for two full nights, at the cracked ceiling above his bed. At his brothers, their faces painted in the soft light that shone in from the street. He tried to calm himself by remembering that soon, very soon, in fact, he may not have to look at this ceiling, or share a room with his brothers, or share a bathroom, or walk everywhere or worry about how his bills would be paid. Soon, very soon, in fact, maybe their fridge would be full and they wouldn’t have to walk everywhere with knives hidden away in their boots. 

On the third day, he decided to act. 

He’d come to the conclusion, rather unceremoniously, that he would have to... choke... Petro. Whether it be with a rope, a tire iron, or worst case scenario; his hands. He spent a lot of time, the night of his decision, staring at his hands. At the dusting of freckles over his knuckles. The cracked and scabby skin. Would his hands still look the same after they took a life? Would they change into something, as Mickey put it, inhuman? 

He’d spent well enough time dwelling on it, and on that third day, he didn’t think about it much at all. Instead, he thought of Petro’s eyes. Would they be afraid? Would they look at him like they knew him? 

Would they cry? 

“Hey, dollface,” Fiona broke into his thoughts. “You not hungry?” 

He looked down at his plate of scrambled eggs, and then back into his sister’s eyes. Would hers change, too?

“No,” he forced a smile. “Guess I’m not. It’s the, the heat, y’know? Gets to me sometimes.” 

Fiona frowned in concern, but she seemingly bought the excuse, as she nodded, and went back to her own meal.

Ian was nearing the halfway point of the week he had been given, as he let the slim bed support his weight, ears filling with the unsynced and somewhat loud breathing of his brother sleeping in the same room. He closed his eyes, but in no way was he about to let sleep take him. 

Instead he pictured different scenarios. Different… options. Ian was decently tall - which had equipped him with large hands, and he had built up some muscle in his arms over the years as well. So using his hands… could work, but he would have to walk straight up to Petro, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to go through with wrapping his hands around his throat if he had to look into his eyes while he did it. 

He could use a tire iron, but if he screwed up, that could be a really dangerous weapon to have around. Not that he intended on screwing up, of course. 

Rope seemed to be the best option. He would have to catch him truly off guard, but then he could just switch hands once he caught him, and it would be easy… 

Ian got up and made his way through the hallway, just barely kneeling in front of the toilet bowl in time for twenty four hours of scrambled eggs, boiled potatoes, and lasagna to escape his stomach. 

Afterwards, he used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, leaning back against the wall. 

There had been a solid minute back in bed where he had been thinking about this like he thought about blending a milkshake. A list of tasks he needed to do in order to reach the end product. As if what he was doing wasn’t dark - grim, evil or violent. The thought of Petro as a human being made Ian’s cheeks ache once again, and he got back up onto his knees, knuckles whitening around the edge of the bowl. He opened his mouth, but nothing made its way back up his throat. 

Finally, he cleaned his mouth out, and made his way back into bed. Rope. 

✦✦✦

The next day, he had the house to himself - he didn’t have to work, either. Days like those were rare, and usually he spent them asleep, or cleaning the house in order to help Fiona. Today, though, all he could do was to plan. Make sure that tonight would go his way. 

The first thing, he thought, the most important thing, would be to find his, ‘weapon,’ right? Find the thing that he would use to... he would find something besides his own hands. 

The Gallagher basement was a mess, to no ones surprise. Old baby furniture and Frank’s clothes and tools and miscellaneous things they didn’t need but couldn’t bring themselves to throw away littered the floor, and Ian had to skillfully traverse the makeshift obstacle course in order to even begin to look. 

The first thing he came across was a tie down bungee cable, and while realistically he knew it wouldn’t work, he still tied it around his own neck and gave a squeeze, but rolled his eyes when it didn’t even begin to cut off his breathing. Tossing it aside, he kept digging, and found a length of regular old frayed rope that he couldn’t find a purpose for. Wrapping that around his neck and pulling tight, he found that it did well at making him dizzy, but left his hands feeling itchy with a burn. 

He kept digging - he came across a jump rope that his sweaty hands couldn’t get a good grip on, another rope that would probably burn his hands even more - and a wire. A piano wire. Acquired and forgotten by one of his siblings for one reason or another - years ago, judging by how far down he had to dig. 

Swallowing, he wrapped the wire around both of his fists, and then he placed it around his neck, crossing under his chin. He didn’t last thirty seconds before he winced and let go. 

With the wire in hand, he left the basement behind. 

Hours later, Ian left the house - dressed in jeans, one of his brother’s old leather jackets, and a pair of his own worn-in canvas sneakers. The fabric would soak any blood up, but Ian hoped that his method wouldn’t leave much. If it did, he could always burn them - they were about two steps from falling apart, anyway.  Mickey had loaned him a car - not one of his own, expensive ones, of course, but Ian couldn’t very well be seen on the bus looking like he was about to go commit murder.  He parked the car about a block away from Petro’s house - close enough that he could get out of there quickly, but not close enough that it was obvious who it belonged to. 

Trying to look inconspicuous, while being possibly the most conspicuous he's ever been, was particularly hard for Ian. With his trembling hands and roiling stomach (he emptied it twice on the short walk from the car), he found that while it was difficult to focus on what his task was - it also... wasn’t? 

He had a plan laid out in his mind.  One - go in through the kitchen window (Mickey told him it was always kept unlocked) Two -  bypass dining room and turn right towards the stairs. Three -  go to the last door on the left- Petro’s room (he would be alone. Thankfully his wife was out of town. Something about a sick mother-  _ Great timing, Fish.  _ Four - get the body to the car.  Five - dump the body and the car.  Six - go home and pretend nothing ever happened. 

He played it in his mind on a loop. Step one. Step two. Step three - step six, go home. Go to sleep. Go home. Go to sleep. Go home. Go to sleep. Pretend he didn’t commit his first murder. 

Just as Mickey said, the window was open. Ian supposed that being in the ‘family’ granted one a little more caution thrown in the wind when it came to being safe and secure in your own home. No one would have been dumb enough to break into a made man’s home - well, no one except for Ian. 

The layout was just as described, and Ian was able to find the stairs with an ease as if he’d been there a hundred times. They barely squeaked, but Ian stayed diligently on the tips of his toes anyway. The quieter he went, the quicker it would go, and he wanted this chapter in his life to be done with for good (the beginning of the book, he reminded himself). 

As he got further up the staircase, the steps began creaking slightly more, but the soft soles of the worn sneakers granted him some leeway. 

He made his way through the dark hallway, pressing his back against the wall as he slowly moved towards the last door on the left. He stayed against the left wall to prevent being seen from the cracked door. It was barely anything - but Ian could tell that there was a dim lamp switched on, and as he got closer, he could hear the quiet mumbling of Petro’s voice. He sounded like he was on the phone - flirting - of course. What else would a man with several mistresses be doing on a night when his wife was out of town? 

Ian let out a shaky breath - making sure not to make any noise - then he stayed there. He listened as Petro spoke on the phone. Who had a telephone in their bedroom, anyway? 

Ian wasn’t sure how long he stood there, waiting for Petro to hang up - he couldn’t very well risk any witnesses, not even ones on the phone. As he waited, Ian got the wire out of his pocket, and wrapped each end around his gloved fists until it was tense in between them. Finally, he heard the click, and he acted without hesitation. 

His elbow helped him swing the door open, and Petro didn’t have enough time to do anything but grunt in surprise - not even turn around - before the wire was tight against his neck, Ian’s chin on his shoulder. 

Petro gasped, clawed at Ian’s clothed wrists and hands, he coughed, and Ian just pulled the wire tighter. Tighter. Finally, it was over. Petro’s hands relaxed, leaving half moons in the sliver of exposed skin in between Ian’s sleeve and glove. He grew heavier, until Ian had no choice but to drop him onto the wooden floor, and step away. 

That was it. 

That was… it. 

_ That was it?  _

Rather than take the time to overthink what Ian had just done, he mentally forced himself into action. What now, what now? Right. He tucked the wire back into his pocket, and then he went out of the room again, down the staircase. He made it back to the car, and moved it along the street - once again, close enough to the house that he could get the body into the trunk, but not so close that it was obvious anything fishy was going on. 

He also got the bottle of bleach and a rag out of the trunk - he wasn’t sure if there was any blood, but there could be - it didn’t hurt to clean either way.  When he entered the window this time, he didn’t waste as much time by sneaking around. He had only been gone five minutes or so - no one could have made it back home to the house without him seeing it. 

Ian walked up the staircase, into the room.  The empty room. 

The room with the floor that was supposed to host Petro’s body. 

Suddenly, an arm wrapped around Ian’s neck, sending the bottle of bleach and rag tumbling to the floor. He reached up to fight back, the tables eerily turned. 

No longer did he have a list in his head, no proper way to do things. All he could feel was his airways being forced shut, and all he could think was how he had to survive.  He threw his head backwards with the kind of force that only came with a shot of adrenaline. It threw Petro off enough to give Ian the chance to turn around and deliver a punch. Two punches. But Petro was no weakling, so those two punches came right back, and then two more.  At some point, Petro managed to throw Ian up against the wall, his head possibly leaving a dent. Then Ian kicked his knee with all of his might, the sound of a bone cracking bellowing through the small room. Petro grunted in pain, and Ian managed to get him onto his back. 

On their way down to the floor, Ian saw something on the wooden desk - something that glimmered in the moonlight. He managed to get a hold of it, his fist tightly wrapped around the weapon as he raised his hand into the air, and then brought it back down. 

Ian didn’t let himself think, didn’t let himself feel. Had he done so, he would have felt the sharp edge of the letter opener slide through Petro’s pale skin like room temperature butter. He would have felt the way it nearly got stuck in his collarbone. He could have heard the gasp of the weapon slicing the airways. 

He wouldn’t have continued stabbing long after he was perched upon a corpse. 

Soon, he felt the cuts in his palm from where the opener had gotten away from him, and opened the glove along with his skin.  Soon, he realized that there were warm tears sliding down his cheeks. Soon, he realized that he was sitting on top of a corpse. A corpse that was a corpse because of his actions. 

Clearing his throat, Ian made it up onto shaking legs, wiping his tears, replacing them with blood. There had to be a way to fix it - maybe if he took him to the hospital. Ian would be in prison, but at least - no. That was ridiculous. 

Distantly, he remembered a conversation in between Mickey and himself. Months ago.

_ “You threw the hat over the wall, man.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “You already threw the hat over the wall. Now you gotta go get it.”  _

Ian let out a shaky sigh, and bent down to lift the body. Only. It was so much heavier than he had anticipated. 

He breathed. And he breathed and he tugged at the body and he tried to get it to move, to get it to cooperate with him but. It didn’t work. And even if it did - could he carry it downstairs? Load it into the trunk? He could. He probably could. He’d have to. But his hands. The hands he was so worried about - they hurt. They were bleeding too, dark and wet and sticky, even in the cool blue light of the moon. He needed - he looked around, not sure what he was hoping to find- needed help. He needed help. And there was only one person that came to mind. 

✦✦✦

“Jesus, calm the fuck down, I’m coming,” Ian heard the voice, muffled through the wood of the front door. “Fuck. Ian?” 

Ian stared at the ground of Mickey’s front porch, barely holding himself up against the sandstone wall. His head hung limp and sore between his shoulder blades, rising and falling with each strangled breath he took. He didn’t want to look at Mickey. Couldn’t. He failed, and Mickey would know -

“Ian,” Mickey said again, softly, reaching and hand out to his shoulder. “Is it done?” 

Ian shook his head, feeling the first sting of tears threatening to mark up his already dirty face. He kept shaking his head even as Mickey pulled him from the porch and into his dimly lit living room. 

“What do you mean it’s not done?” 

“I-” Ian fought hard to swallow, his throat constricting tightly at the thought of the disappointment that he was about to deliver. It was all for nothing. All of it. He ruined his life for nothing. 

“Is he dead?” Mickey asked bluntly. 

“Yeah, Mick. He’s dead. But I couldn’t...” he trailed off and rubbed a stinging hand down his face. “Couldn’t get him out. He’s too... heavy. I need your help.” 

Mickey stood perfectly still for a long moment, looking at Ian with hard, appraising eyes. He started with Ian’s face and trailed down his body - to his shaking shoulders and down to his mangled hands. 

“He put up a fight,” Mickey observed, and Ian nodded. “But he’s dead. And you’re... hurt.” 

“I’m not... Mickey I’m not hurt. We have to go back. We have to - we have to get him in the car. Okay? Can you help me get him in the car? Please, Mickey. I- I can’t do it by myself. I just need you to-”

Ian could feel a mania raising under his skin and in the corners of his mind. He felt like time was moving both too quickly and too slowly all at once. Like his skin was crawling and trying to get away from him, trying to go back and finish what he couldn’t only moments before. 

“Stop,” Mickey said. “Breathe, Fish. Just take a fucking breath.” 

Ian stopped talking, and he tried to breathe as calmly as he could, exaggerating the movement in his chest and stomach, if only to show Mickey that he was cooperating. 

“Good, Fish. Good. Look, you’re not in any shape to go back-”

“But Mickey, I-”

Mickey cut him off with a wave of his hand. The same wave Ian had seen his uncle halt both Mickey and his father. He did it well, Ian thought idly. Someday he’d made a good leader. He already was. 

“No. Listen to me. He’s dead. You did good, okay? You did good. But right now I need you to go get a hot shower. Hot as you can stand it. Wash all the blood off. Clean under your finger nails and inside of your ears. You scrub and you scrub until you can’t no more, alright? I’ll find you some clothes. We’ll talk more when you get back down here, okay? Just keep breathing.” 

Arguably, it was the nicest shower Ian had ever been in. Steam billowed around him in puffy white clouds, and the water at his feet ran crimson toward the drain. He stood, for nearly too long, unmoving. He couldn’t. Every time he moved he saw Petro’s face, frozen in horror and realization. He had a wife, Ian thought. Whether or not he had been cheating on her, he had had someone that loved him, and Ian took him away from her. 

He scrubbed and scrubbed, just as Mickey had instructed, feeling himself shiver despite the warmth surrounding him. He cleaned under his nails and inside of his ears, not even stopping when he heard Mickey tell him that his clothes were on the counter. He scrubbed until he was raw; until his skin was pink with blemishes. 

He dried himself off and avoided looking in the mirror. He couldn’t. Didn’t want to. 

He dressed robotically in a plain white t-shirt. A pair of too small striped pajama pants. He caught sight of his knuckles, gnarly and swollen, and figured his face probably didn’t look too different. He would worry about it another time. He knew he had to get back down to Mickey, so that they could fix what he ruined. 

“No, yeah, I know,” Mickey was saying quietly into the phone. “He finished-” he stopped short when he caught Ian watching him, giving him a once over and turning his back to him. “він закінчив роботу. тепер нам потрібно допомогти йому. він робив добро. Okay. Yeah. Talk to you tomorrow.” 

He hung up the receiver and padded back into the living room, gesturing for Ian to have a seat. 

“You maybe want a beer?” Mickey asked, and Ian nodded, still looking to the ground. 

He heard the foot steps leading to the kitchen, and the rummaging sounds of bottle clanking together. What he didn’t hear, was the softer footfall of someone else. 

“You’re hurt,” Ian heard, though this time it was a different voice saying it. Ian’s head snapped up to a pair of forlorn looking blue eyes looking back at him. “I saw you. From, um, from the park. With my daddy.” 

“Yeah,” Ian croaked, doing his best to smile. He didn’t want to scare him, this sweet little boy, looking at him like he wanted to heal each of Ian’s wounds with his mind alone. 

“My daddy said when people, when people, they get hurt that you should give them a hug. Or, well, my daddy gives me hugs when I get hurt,” Yevgeny said with all of the self assurance that a three year old could offer. 

“Yev, you’re supposed to be in bed,” Mickey said as he came back, two glass bottles in his hands. 

“But daddy,” he protested, “he’s got cuts. And when I get cuts, you fix them. We gotta fix them for him.” 

“Yevgeny,” Mickey warned, and despite the fact that his son was clearly bringing him a slight feeling of frustration, Ian distantly thought that he had never heard his voice so soft. “Ian is an adult, and it’s way past your bedtime.” He couldn’t do much but sit there and admire this oddly domestic moment - despite how out of place he felt, himself. 

“Can I at least give him a hug?” Yevgeny asked, and Mickey sighed, his eyes meeting Ian’s above his son’s head. Mickey gave Yevgeny’s shoulder a slight nudge forwards, and the little boy padded over to Ian. Despite sitting down, Ian still had to hunch over to return the gentle hug. “I hope you feel better tomorrow.” 

Perhaps it was the pure innocence, or perhaps it was the fact that Ian couldn’t remember the last time he had been given a hug. Perhaps it was both and everything else, but by the time Yevgeny disappeared up the staircase, Ian’s tears had returned. He placed his eyes into his hands for a moment, but then he winced as the salt in them made contact with his cuts. 

“Christ, you’re a mess, Fish,” Mickey mumbled, but Ian couldn’t very well argue. “Give me a minute.” He left to head up the staircase, but soon he was back with what looked like a first aid kid. 

“Sorry,” Ian sighed as Mickey took a seat on the couch next to him, ruffling through the various bandaids and gauzes. It didn’t look like a new kit - things had clearly been added, used up, and added again. Some items looked professional, some looked like pieces of clothing, and make-shift needles. “Shouldn’t have showed up here - probably scarred your son for life,” Ian said, voice strained. 

“He’s seen worse,” Mickey admitted, taking one of Ian’s hands in his own, his palm warm against the back of Ian’s. “Kid’s stronger than me,” he added. Ian winced as he padded the cuts with rubbing alcohol. 

“Yeah, but that’s probably not so hard, huh?” Ian teased with a watery smile, even going so far as to chuckle a little when Mickey flared at him. “Still... I... I’ll get going. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I don’t want to...” he trailed off with a shrug. 

“Shut your pie hole, man. It’s fine. You need to... decompress or some shit. Better you do it here than somewhere else where your mouth is gonna get you and me in a whole lotta trouble.” 

“I wouldn’t say anything, Mickey. You have to know I wouldn’t ever squeal on you. Or the family,” Ian pleaded, a fresh wave of tears making their presence known. He hadn’t cried so much in... ever, and while he had a vague idea of what was wrong ( _don’t be fucking stupid, Ian_ ), still, the sensation was strange. And he hated that he looked so weak in front of Mickey. 

“I hope, for you sake and mine, that that’s true.”

“I just...” Ian started, choosing for now to ignore Mickey’s comment, “I just keep seeing his face. I- how long, Mickey? How long will he be there?” He asked and tapped at his temple. 

Mickey swallowed and slowly packed up the unused supplies of his kit, balling up the spent gauze and alcohol wipes, before finally turning his full attention to Ian. 

“Always, Fish. They’ll always be there.”

✦✦✦

Ian could recall Mickey walking up the stairs to put himself to bed, but after that, there was nothing. The next thing he knew, he was waking up. He was squinting in an attempt to shut the sun, but it wasn’t doing much good, because the large windows were in the perfect place to flood the entire living room with daylight. Mickey’s couch brought Ian a better night’s sleep than his own bed. Perhaps because it probably cost eight times as much, and then some. Or perhaps Ian was just completely exhausted. 

“Morning, Snow White.” The voice was followed by the sound of curtains being drawn, shielding Ian from the intrusive light. He blinked, Mickey’s features slowly coming into shape at the end of the couch. 

“‘M not that pale.”

“Yeah you are, but that ain’t why. It’s ‘cause the bitch was asleep for three hundred years.” 

“You know those movies well?” Ian mumbled, still not completely awake. He watched Mickey head towards the kitchen. 

“Got a kid, man,” he shrugged. 

The content incomprehension that had clouded Ian’s senses in his sleep slowly faded, and as Mickey came back into the living room with two cups of coffee, the images of last night flooded Ian’s brain once again. He reached for one of the mugs, swallowing at the sight of his cuts. 

“Time’s it?” Ian questioned, voice weaker than he preferred it. 

“A lil’ after lunch.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep so long. I guess-”

He was cut off by not one, but two Milkoviches. Mickey, with a dismissive wave of his hand, and Yevgeny with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. 

“Ian! You’re finally awake! My dad said - my dad said that I had to be quiet while you were sleeping. Did I do a good job?” Yevgeny asked hopefully, eyes wide and impatient as he waited for Ian to praise him. 

“Yeah, Buddy,” he said, a little dizzy from overstimulation so soon after opening his eyes. “You did a great job. Thanks for letting me sleep.” 

“I’m real good at being quiet,” Yev nodded sagely, and Mickey snickered behind him. 

“Who’s good at being quiet? It sure as hell ain’t you, kid,” Mickey tittered, and Ian has to fight against his own smile when Yevgeny turned to him and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t listen to my dad. He doesn’t know nothing.” 

“He doesn’t know _anything_ ,” Mickey corrected. “And I know enough to know that you need to go get your shit together. Almost time to go back to your mom’s.” 

“Aw, daddy! I don’t wanna go! I wanna stay here and play with Ian!” Yevgeny stomped and tipped his head back, his soft blond hair falling back towards his neck. 

“Well maybe Ian doesn’t wanna play with you, ever think of that?” 

“Ian!” Yevgeny bellowed, turning his attention back to their guest. “Tell my dad that’s not true! Tell him you do wanna play with me!” 

Looking at him, that little boy, with his blue eyes blistering and his eyebrows scrunched up, it was easy to see Mickey in him. Was easy to see that he was a kid who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and who knew how to get what he wanted, just like his dad. It made Ian smile, even if his lip was on the verge of busting back open, and he was infinitely grateful for the distraction. 

“Yeah, Mickey. Maybe I do wanna play with Yevy. Ever think of that?” He snarked, throwing Mickey’s words back in his face. 

“Uh-uh,” Mickey said with a disbelieving grin of his own. “I’m not gonna be ganged up on in my own house. Especially not by you -” he squawked and picked up his son, who screamed in delight. “- and your giant sidekick. Go pack up your bag. You can see Ian another time if you’re good.” 

Ian finished the cup of coffee as the two disappeared, Mickey presumably not trusting Yevgeny to pack everything by himself - understandably, considering his age. Eventually, the two came back down again, bickering about something in Ukrainian. It was just then that Ian managed to realize that the boy had a slight accent when he spoke English - just barely. Perhaps his mother spoke Ukrainian to him as well. 

“Bye Ian,” Yevgeny waved to Ian as Mickey opened the front door. 

”Just gonna wait for his mom with him, I’ll be back in a sec,” Mickey told Ian, who returned Yevgeny’s wave. 

Ian shouldn’t be watching them, he knew that. But he blamed it on the need for a distraction - and the fact that he had been curious about Yevgeny’s mother since the moment he had found out about his existence. Before Mickey had a son - in Ian’s mind - he had been this… character, this evil person that made the hair at the back of Ian’s neck stand up. Since that day in the park, a part of Ian had always wondered - how much of that was who he was? Was it even there at all? Who was the real Mickey? Was it the man who sneered, and tore up his knuckles without flinching, or was it this man? The man out on the curb, crouching to get down to his son’s height? Laughing with him? Ruffling his hair? 

Ian watched a car pull up. Out of the vehicle, stepped a woman. Ian wasn’t sure what he had been expecting - what kind of woman he had imagined Mickey’s ex to be. But at the sight of the tall brunette, he felt something in his gut turn. She was so beautiful - even Ian could admit that. Dressed in leather pants, a navy coat and high heels. Something told Ian that Mickey hadn’t met her out on the town - she was a part of the family, for sure. In one way or another. 

Perhaps Ian had been expecting someone who wouldn’t make any sense standing next to Mickey. A false note, nails on a chalkboard. This was not that. Ian knew that they were not together, but they easily could be. 

Whatever. It wasn’t as if Ian had any reason to be upset - he wasn’t even sure why he felt as if he might be. Perhaps because he didn’t have that - someone that made sense next to him. Someone that could make him feel human, to quote Mickey. 

He watched with sick, rapt attention at the way she moved. Even from Mickey’s living room window, a good several years away, he could see her elegance. Her sleek body moved in a way that, if he were a straight man, would attract him- or any man- easily. He watched the way Mickey’s body floated against hers. It didn’t seem intimate, but they did seem in sync. 

There wasn’t any animosity, that much was clear. The way she smiled and laughed, the way Mickey mirrored her. The way Yevgeny bounced between the two, seemingly not only content, but happy with his arrangement. 

And then he watched them part. The way she leaned in and kissed his cheek. The way she wiped away a wine colored smudge of lipstick with her thumb. The way Mickey kissed her back. 

It... turned his stomach in the strangest way. In a way that reminded him of his brother getting the last slice of cake. It reminded him a lot of wanting something that he thought was his. 

But he shook it away as soon as it came, banishing the intrusive thought as far in the recesses of his mind as his could, and tore himself away from his voyeuristic perch in front of the window. He forced himself, despite his jumping legs, to sit down on his makeshift bed on the couch, and prohibited himself from looking at anything else, for fear that he’d only work himself up more. 

By the time that the door opened and the sound of Mickey’s boots scraped across the ground, Ian was locked firmly in his head; picturing something that looked a lot like a playground he used to visit when he was young. When things weren’t so upside down and backwards. When he almost felt safe. 

“You okay, Fish?” 

“Hmm?” Ian hummed, forcing his conscious back to the forefront. “Yeah I’m fine. She’s uh, she’s pretty,” he said before he could even register the words. 

“Yeah, I guess... if you’re into that sort of thing,” Mickey shrugged, going about his living room and picking up Yevgeny’s forgotten toys. 

“You aren’t?” 

Mickey turned around to face him, standing up straight and squaring off his shoulders. From Ian’s position on the couch, Mickey was much taller. Bigger and stronger, and Ian was almost reminded of how intimidated he was of Mickey once upon a time. 

“I like what I like. But she ain’t exactly it.” 

“If she doesn’t do it for you, not exactly sure what would.” 

“Yeah. Okay,” Mickey sighed and scraped his thumbnail across his nose. “We’re gonna have to talk about last night. You’re gonna have to talk to Aleks. Let him know you finished the job.” 

Ian sat with a furrowed brow, wondering why Mickey was changing the subject so abruptly. It wasn’t even in the same stream of consciousness. But he processed the information anyway, and a new pit grew in his guts. 

“I didn’t, though. Didn’t finish the job.”

”Yes, you did,” Mickey said immediately, reaching for the pack of Lucky Strikes thrown onto the coffee table. He placed a cigarette in between his lips and lit it, before offering the pack up to Ian. He shook his head. Smoking may be a good way to relieve anxiety, but he thought he may vomit everything within his system if he tried to force smoke into his worried system. 

“Mick-“ Ian was once again interrupted by Mickey placing his hand in between them. 

“Fish…” Mickey started, taking a break to inhale some more of the smoke before letting it escape out through his nostrils. He then let the cigarette rest in between his index and middle finger, as he leaned forwards in the leather chair, elbows resting on his knees. The few inches of window still uncovered by curtain fabric gifted just enough sunlight for Ian to see the stern look within the blue eyes. “Listen to me, are you listening?”

“I’m listening,” Ian confirmed. 

“You went out last night. You did what needed to be done. You took his finger, you put it outside the basement door in a paper bag. You cleaned it up, all by yourself. Are we clear?”

“Then I went home?” Ian questioned, to which Mickey shook his head, taking another drag of the tobacco. 

“Nah, then you came over here, had a beer and passed out on the couch,” Mickey decided. “Yev can’t keep his mouth shut for shit, gonna tell his uncle Aleks how much he likes you - ‘s all he does. Kid sings like he’s on a stage.” 

Ian wasn’t exactly in the mood to smile, but he couldn’t help the edges of his lips from twitching. 

“Calm down, the kid likes everyone,” Mickey waved him off, and Ian managed a chuckle, Mickey surprisingly joining in, even if it lasted for just a second. 

✦✦✦

Ian walked into the Howard Johnson’s the next day - after many hours asleep in his own bed, and equally as many spent trying to find a way to soothe the swelling on his face - none of them really worked, but thankfully he lived in Canaryville, so a black and blue face didn’t exactly stand out. 

“Ian!” Ezra greeted as soon as he saw Ian step through the doors. It was still early, so they hadn’t opened yet; Ian could barely hear his co-worker over the sound of the ice cream machine churning. “Didn’t know you were coming in today, am I wrong?” Suddenly there was a worried look on his face, and Ian understood why - since Mr. Hyde’s unfortunate… disappearance, his wife had been forced to take over the business side of things, so she had promoted Ezra to manager. A job he hadn’t felt ready for in the least. Ian just shook his head, waving him off. 

“No, no - I need to talk to Mrs. Hyde, where is she?”

“Uh - office,” Ezra informed him before heading into the kitchen. 

Ian made his way through the hallway, swallowing down the lump in his throat, telling himself that there was nothing to worry about. It was just an office. And he needed to do this. 

Ian took a breath, and then let his knuckles tap against the wooden surface of the door. 

“Come on in,” her inviting voice answered. Ian opened the door, breathing a sigh of relief when he was presented with a redecorated office. New layout, new coat of paint on the walls - it made sense. It had been months by now. She wanted to move on. “Ian.” She looked up from her desk, a warm smile washing across her features. “I didn’t think you were scheduled to work today?”

“Yeah, about that…” Ian took a few steps into the room. “I came to tell you that I’m quitting.” 

“You’re...?” She leaned back in her chair, and cupped her face in her hands. “Is it something I did?” 

Ian chewed on his bottom lip. This woman, whom he’d known for years, sat with glittering eyes and a quivering chin. And it was because of him. Hadn’t he disappointed enough people1 mostly himself- and now this... this grieving widow (she didn’t even know she was a widow...) 

“No. No, Mrs. Hyde. You didn’t. You didn’t do anything. It’s just time, you know? I gotta... I gotta find somewhere else that can pay a little more. My family... we’ve been short on our bills the last few months and... y’know, the barges, I’m thinking...” he trailed off, not knowing what to say or what to do to make any of this better. 

“I’m sorry. I’ve just been so emotional lately,” she told him with a sniff, wiping at her face with her knuckles so as not to mess up her makeup. 

“I get it. I do. And I really am sorry...” 

She smiled, albeit sadly. It didn’t reach her reddened eyes, nor did she truly look happy, but he appreciated her effort all the same. 

“No, I’m the one that’s sorry,” he mumbled into her shoulder when she stood to give him a parting hug. 

She couldn’t know how much he really meant it.

✦✦✦

Later that night, Ian forced the intrusive thoughts and the guilt to the back of his mind - as much as possible, at least. And he got dressed, knowing that Mickey would soon be in front of his house, most likely in a bad mood, because that tended to be his general vibe when they were about to stand in front of his bosses. 

As he made his way down the staircase, he found himself looking at his feet, as to make sure he wouldn’t scuff the monks - then he realized that was ridiculous and no one would ever take him seriously if he walked around like that. So he rolled his shoulders back, and made his way out into the darkness, heading towards the red Chevrolet. 

“Took you so fucking long?” Was Mickey’s only greeting when Ian got into the vehicle. A few months ago, Ian would have cursed him out, or felt scared, but by now, he had managed to hear the difference in between a Mickey who was upset with him, and a Mickey who was just upset. 

Ian knew that it was within his best interest not to annoy him right now, so he stayed quiet as Mickey took them over to the diner. 

Dorothy greeted them when they walked through the door, and Ian followed Mickey’s lead by pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. Her cheeks flushed crimson, before she floated off into the kitchen. 

“You’re learning,” Mickey stated, as they made their way down the staircase. 

“I’m learning what?” Ian questioned. 

“How to get people on your side, Fish,” he paused to nod at someone who was clearly above him. “It’s the most important part.”

Ian had been expecting the usual - a closed office door, words exchanged through it before Aleksandr opened. This time, however, the door was open, and while Mickey’s uncle and his father were in there, so was another group of people. 

“не залякуйте його,” Mickey said as they entered. 

“не ваш вибір робити, Майкл,” Aleksandr said, not taking his eyes off of Ian, who was now in the middle of the room, feeling very much exposed. He heard Mickey turn around to close the door, before taking his place off to the side. It was a rare occasion that Ian longed for Mickey to be closer to him, but here it was. He was the only person he… trusted? Among these people. However low the bar may be. 

“So,” Aleksandr started. “You did it.”

“Yes,” was all he could manage to say, moving his mouth as if there were more, but no more coming out. There wasn’t anymore that he wanted to say, anyway, worried that he’d break down and cry then and there. And that was the last thing he wanted. 

“Sit. Please,” Aleks offered, waving his hand toward the leather chairs that housed Ian’s orders the last time that he was there. 

As soon as he hit the chair, he hooked his leg around Mickey’s, the same way the Mickey had done to them the last time they were there. If Mickey minded, he didn’t show it. Instead, he pressed his own leg harder against Ian’s, a grounding force when Ian felt as if he could float away and never come back. 

“Tell me, Ian, how does it feel? To have had that power in your hands?” 

Ian swallowed, and swallowed again. His throat felt numb with pressure, like his world would close in on him. Like his body was willing itself to die. 

“It felt... it felt like I did what needed to be done.” 

Aleks leaned back in his chair, twining what fingers he had left under his chin. Ian didn’t know if he’d said the right thing, if he should have lied and said it felt great. If he should have spoken up and said that he hated it and hoped never to have to do it again. The latter probably wasn’t an option, he reconciled, but maybe if he’d have said he loved it, they’d go easier on him? 

“And would you do it again? If I called on you, can you be trusted?” His voice was low and words came out languidly, as if it were an everyday conversation he was having, and really- wasn’t it?

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” Ian nodded sagely, hoping beyond hope that it wouldn’t come to that. 

“And if I asked you to kill Mikhailo? Right here, right now?” 

Ian’s eyes snapped to the side, his heart stuttering in his chest and his breath igniting a fire in his already ragged throat. 

“що ти робиш? він зробив те, що ви просили. ти божевільний!” Mickey spat, launching out of his chair and dislodging Ian’s leg. He hadn’t seen Mickey this way before. He’d seen him angry. He’d seen him yell. But he hadn’t seen him look this intense, this inscrutably enraged. Ian only wished he could understand their words. 

“ти занадто любиш свого цуценя, Михайло,” his uncle said cooly, not in the least perturbed by his nephew’s outburst. 

“I’m not,” Mickey breathed. “I’m not. But...” his eyes fell to Ian, almost melancholy as his eyes danced around Ian’s form. “він новий. він зробив те, що ви просили. Не лякай його зараз.” 

Mickey looked to his uncle, who stared back at him, chin slowly raising, eyes settling into a slight squint.

“Ти боїшся, що я його дуже лякаю. чому це так важливо для вас?” 

Mickey sat back down, and seemed to take a deep breath, before speaking. 

“You are being unfair.” It threw Ian off slightly to hear him switch back to English when he wasn’t expecting it, but he immediately put on his listening ears, hoping that he could figure out exactly what was going on. “You asked him to prove himself. He proved himself. And it’s not the first time.” 

Ian was sane enough to realize that the warmth which settled deep in his stomach upon hearing Mickey speak of him in that way was irrational, and could lead nowhere good. But for now, all he could do was press his ankle against his, unsure of which one of them he was comforting. 

Nor was Ian sure of how much time passed with the entire room wrapped in an excruciatingly loud silence - before Aleksandr spoke.

“Alright.” He looked away from Mickey, instead staring at Ian. “You will be here tomorrow. Five am. And you will take the oath.” Ian swallowed thickly, unable to process what was truly happening. Finally. Mickey bumped his ankle joint against Ian’s, the pain causing him to spring into action. 

“Thank you, sir.” Ian stated. 

“сер.”

“сер,” he repeated with a curt nod. 

“If you are going to be a soldier you will eventually need to learn the language, are we clear? If someone above you gives you an order, and you don’t follow through because you don’t understand the language, that your own problem to solve. Yes?”

“так.” Ian could just barely hear Mickey’s mumbled word as he brought his thumb to his mouth, scratching his bottom lip. 

“так,” Ian repeated, hoping that Mickey’s help had gone unnoticed. Judging by the way that Aleksandr looked at him, it hadn’t. Ian couldn’t quite explain the feeling that made its way down his spine as he saw the chill in his stare. Mickey stared back, daring. 

“це як ми робимо речі?” Aleksandr questioned. 

“як я можу знати, що я досі тобі риба, правда? чому ти хвилюєшся, що я роблю?”

Aleksandr looked from Mickey, to Terry, and then to Ian. 

“I’m terribly sorry for my nephew’s unseemly behavior,” he told Ian. “Would you all give us a moment alone with him?” 

Ian swallowed, and looked to Mickey. Aleksandr’s switch to politeness was nothing but a cold warning, even he could sense that. 

“Beat feet, man,” Mickey told Ian. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

The door closed, and Ian waited, and then waited. After a few minutes, it opened. 

“Tell me Ian,” Aleks said after appraising his nephew for a long, quiet moment, “How did you do it?” 

And that; that was what Ian was afraid of. Having to relive his nightmare. Having to rehash the way he failed, the way Petro fought him. The way he died. 

“о, давай,” Mickey sprang up again, just as Ian was about to speak. 

His actions not only caught Ian by surprise, but judging by the way his uncle arched a remarkably familiar eyebrow, it threw him off, too. 

“Ian,” Aleks called, eyes trained on his nephew, “Do you know what happens when my men won’t fall in line? What happens when they disrespect me, and in front of new company, no less? Especially after he and I  _ just  _ had a discussion about his insolence?” 

Ian looked to Mickey, who seemed to sober at the question, straightening his back and flaring his nostrils. He looked, scared- wasn’t exactly the word that Ian would use. But something akin to it. Something that Ian hadn’t seen on Mickey before. 

“Ian?” He asked again, and Ian turned to face him, heart beating wildly in his chest.

Was Mickey going to die?

“No sir, I... don’t.” 

“I’d like for you to remember this,” he said, all too calmly. 

The hair on the back of Ian’s neck stood on end as Aleks called for someone in the next room over. Ian looked to Mickey again, screaming, pleading, crying out in his mind for Mickey to look back at him, but he didn’t. Instead, he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, a resigned, dead look coming over his features in a wash of heavy breathing. 

“Remember this, Ian,” Aleks reminded, “remember this and remember that I have a particularly soft heart when it comes to Mikhailo. I love him as if he were my own. And this is his punishment. Take that and internalize it. I won’t be so kind to you if you decide to be as brave as him.” 

And with that, he gave a wave of his hand, just a little flick of the wrist, and two men (of whom Ian had seen but hadn’t met) dragged Mickey by his shoulders to the center of the room, stood him up, and quickly knocked him down. 

Ian watched in frenzied horror as Mickey was kicked and stomped on. He cried out when Mickey did, though Ian sounded more in pain than the former. He felt nausea rise up when Mickey’s mouth gurgled out a fine stream of blood at the corner of his lips, and he felt nothing but pure, blinding relief when his uncle called them off. 

Mickey stayed put once they were done, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling as his chest heaved and wheezed with each breath he drew in. 

“I’d like for you to tend to him now, Ian. Take him home and make sure that the next time you come here- he’s a little more kind to me. And that you’re a little more talkative. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” 

“так, сер,” Ian confirmed. Aleksandr took a step closer to him, and placed his palm against his cheek, giving him a few pats; ones that were nearly painful. He gave Ian an unreadable smile, and then the brothers left, along with the rest of the men. 

Once the last door closed, Ian looked to the man on the floor. He neared Mickey, swallowing down the pain it brought him to see him in this condition - to see him on his back, struggling for breath, blood leaking out of his nose and his mouth. 

“Mickey, you have to get on your stomach, you’re gonna choke,” Ian kneeled next to him, placing his hands onto his shoulders, gently helping him over. He patted his back, patiently waiting until Mickey had emptied his mouth - and possibly stomach - of any blood that had made its way in. 

“Fuck off, Fish,” Mickey grumbled, but it didn’t sound all that threatening coming from a man with a broken nose, chipped teeth, and likely broken ribs. “I know how to take ca-oh, fuck!” Mickey cursed after a failed attempt at pushing himself up onto his knees. 

“Shut up,” Ian grumbled. He knew very well that Mickey didn’t want to seem weak - but the truth was that Ian struggled to imagine a single scenario in which he would perceive the man as such. “Come here, up.”

Ian brought Mickey’s arm around his own neck, curling his freckles fingers around the pale and bloody wrist as he looped his other arm around his waist. They moved slowly - Mickey was a lot heavier than he looked, especially when he was halfway to dreamland - but they did move. Up the staircase and out of the basement, into the blacked out diner. Out through the backdoor that was always left open for the family, before they finally made it to Mickey’s car. 

“Where are your keys?” Ian asked, and Mickey haphazardly patted himself down before stumbling upon the car keys. Ian took them and unlocked the car. It was a feat getting Mickey into the passenger seat, but they managed it. “Hey,” Ian delivered a slap to his cheek when his head fell back against the seat, eyes slowly falling closed. “Stay awake.” 

“‘’M not gonna die, Fish. Just… tired.” 

“Yevgeny still into dinosaurs?” Ian asked as he got into the driver’s seat, carefully getting the expensive car back into the road. 

“Hell yeah, man,” Mickey mumbled. “All the kid talks about is… the teeth, and the fossils. The ones with the wings, and the… the…” 

“What’s his favorite again?” 

“Compsognathus,” Mickey sighed. 

“Why does he like those?”

Surprisingly, Ian managed to keep Mickey awake for the entire drive back to his house. By some similar miracle, he got him out of the car, and into the house that Ian was yet to stop feeling intimidated by. 

“Where’s the first aid kid?” Ian asked, helping Mickey onto the couch. 

“Bathroom.” The answer was joined by a weak gesture, and Ian headed into the bathroom, sorting through a few cabinets before he found the kit. “You don’t gotta do this, man, you can fuck off,” Mickey grunted as Ian took a seat upon the coffee table, across from Mickey. He poured some alcohol onto a piece of cloth. 

“ _ You _ can fuck off,” he retorted, smiling at the way Mickey winced when he pressed the fabric to the cut in his forehead. 

  
  


“Fuck. Stings,” Mickey hissed, feebly swatting away at Ian’s hand. 

“Yeah, it’s gonna just a lot more if you don’t let me clean it and it gets infected, jackass.” 

Mickey sat still at that, looking up at Ian as he worked. Ian felt a pang, a little gut punch each time he caught note of his tacky lashes, clumped together with hard-won tears. 

He was good, in the sense that he let Ian work, as Ian cleaned off his cuts. Got rid of the blood, both dried and cracked and the held pressure when the blood bubbled out in bright red streams. He tried to give an encouraging smile each time Mickey winced, but realistically he probably just served to piss Mickey off. 

“There,” he said once he’d finished, “be back to scoring all the ladies in no time.” 

“Yeah, great,” Mickey grunted and leaned back against the couch- the one that still housed Ian’s makeshift bed from the night before. It was hard to imagine that he’d survived the last twenty four hours. Just a day had gone by and yet, it felt as if it had been a month. A year. Maybe more. Ian killed a man... just yesterday. 

But this wasn't the time to dwell in himself. Mickey was hurt- a very real, very tangible threat that he could deal with and take his mind off of him. So he made himself useful. Threw away the bloodied bandages and wrappers, made Mickey a sandwich from his fridge, and tidied up (Yev’s leftover mess that Mickey hadn’t finished) before taking the seat right next to Mickey and settling in. 

“That happen often?” Ian asked after a long silence. 

“No. Not for a long time.” Mickey’s voice was quiet, pained in a way that made Ian want to hold him- not hold him. He wouldn’t... couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to. He didn’t. And he wouldn’t. 

“You got a mouth on you, huh? Couldn’t understand a word you said but... that was it, wasn’t it? You said... something you shouldn’t have.” 

Mickey let out a little cough and clutched at his ribs as he did so, folding in on himself to stave off the pain. 

“Yeah, Fish. Said something I shouldn’t have.” 

“What did you say?” Ian asked, curiosity piqued. 

“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you don’t ever let yourself talk to him that way. Okay? I don’t... I don’t want you to get hurt, alright? So just... don’t do what I did.”

“Mick…” Ian clicked his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared about me,” he joked, in an attempt to bring some of their comfortable banter into the uncharted territory they seemed to have wandered in on. 

“Fuck off, man,” Mickey grumbled, leaning his head back against the couch, eyes falling shut. His face winced once before it faded, leaving his features relaxed. 

“Want something to kill the pain?”

“Nah, man,” Mickey brought his hand up before letting it fall back down against his blood-soaked, white button up. He kept his eyes closed. “Both gotta be up in a coupla’ hours.” 

Ian hummed in understanding, his eyes staying on Mickey. He found it strange - how at peace he seemed, despite being covered in blood, with broken ribs, and a nose that would surely heal wrong. He had to be used to this in order to be so calm. The thought brought a stabbing sensation to Ian’s heart. The thought of Mickey stumbling back home in this condition with no one to clean his cuts up. No one to make sure he was okay. Perhaps this exact scenario had even taken place before Mickey even became an adult. The thought of an adolescent, lonely Mikhailo making his way into his room - wherever he had grown up - covered in blood, pain, and perhaps tears - it made Ian struggle not to ball his fists up in anger. 

He didn’t deserve that. Wait. Yes, he did. This was Mickey, of course he deserved it. 

“Whatever, man,” Mickey slowly let his eyes drift open after the minute or two of rest. He pushed himself forwards, holding his ribs as he stood up, turning around to look down at Ian. 

“You can crash again,” he gestured to the couch. “Gotta be at the office at three thirty anyway.”

“No, he said five,” Ian shook his head. 

“Yeah, Fish, that’s something you gotta learn. Someone tells you five, and you ain’t there at four thirty, you’re late. And you gotta make a good impression - so three thirty.” 

“Got it,” Ian nodded, figuring that it wasn’t within his best interest to question, nor argue. “You don’t have to go,” Ian said, once Mickey was halfway to the staircase. He turned around, raising his eyebrows in question. “I mean, you’re hurt, I’m sure I can do it alone.”

“They gonna eat you alive. ‘Sides, you gotta show up after you take a beating like this. Unless you’re in a coma or dead, you gotta show up. Otherwise you’re a weakling.”

“Doesn’t seem fair,” Ian said before he could stop himself. Mickey stared at him from across the room. Then he laughed. A foul, bitter laugh - though Ian had a feeling it wasn’t directed towards him. It sounded more as if Mickey was… laughing at himself.

“Yeah, that’s a word you gotta leave behind, man. Ain’t nothing fair no more, Fish.” He shook his head and turned back around. “Night.”

“Night,” Ian responded, not taking his eyes off of Mickey until he disappeared around the corner at the top of the stairs. 

Ian found the light switch by the front door, and flipped it, before going back to the couch, thankful for the way the darkness soothed the headache he hadn’t realized he had been carrying around.  He tried to close his eyes, but all he could see was blood. Mickey’s blood. Then he opened his eyes, and all he could think about was his face - not his bloody face, just his face. The way he had leaned his head back and closed his eyes. How peaceful he had looked. How… beautiful. 

Yeah. Beautiful. Ian thought Mickey was beautiful. 

God damn it. Just his fucking luck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we're gonna be picking up the posting a little bit for now, most likely around two times a week.
> 
> ✦✦✦
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> "He did his job. Now we need to help him. He did good." 
> 
> "Don't intimidate him."   
> "Not your choice to make, Mikhailo."
> 
> "What are you doing? He did what you asked, you're insane!"  
> "You're too fond of your puppy, Mikhailo."   
> "He's new. He did what you asked. Don't scare him away now."  
> "You're afraid I'll scare him away. Why is he so important to you?"
> 
> "Sir."  
> "Sir." 
> 
> "Yes."  
> "Yes."  
> "Is this how we do things?"  
> "How should I know, I'm still a fish to you, am I not? Why are you so worried about what I'm doing?" 
> 
> "Oh, come on." 
> 
> "Yes, sir."


	10. ten

“Wake up, Fish.” 

Ian jolted awake, coming to in a flash. He couldn’t remember falling asleep- having replayed Mickey’s face over and over; a speck of vibrant blue in a sea of red, sticky skin. 

He opened his eyes to see the living room light flicked on, and Mickey looking considerably better than he had just a few hours before. While his face was still undoubtedly- well, fucked- he was showered and his hair was styled in its usual pompadour. His clothes were clean and pressed, and he was standing as if nothing was wrong. 

“How you feeling?” Ian asked, slowly dragging himself into an upright position as rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes. 

“Feel fine. You gotta get up and jump your ass in the shower. We’ve got some things to go over before we get there.” 

Ian watched him as he turned toward the kitchen, only a slight hobble to his walk. Ian was impressed, really, at the way he was so able to hide his pain. A practiced skill, to be sure, and one that Ian wasn’t eager to master. The clattering of pans and running water drew him from his thoughts, and he made his way up the steps and to Mickey’s bathroom. He couldn’t help but notice a suit hung on the back of the door. 

“You making a habit of taking care of me now?” Ian asked once he’d showered and changed, making his way toward the kitchen and the smell of freshly brewed coffee and gesturing toward his perfectly tailored get up. 

“You’re on my crew now,” Mickey shrugged, methodically and slowly chewing a crunchy piece of toast. “My job is to make sure you got what you need.” 

“And you just so happened to know my measurement because...?” Ian teased, helping himself by digging through Mickey’s cabinets for a mug. 

“Know my way around a body, I guess.”

“’Course you do,” Ian mumbled to himself as he poured himself the remainder of the steamy liquid, appreciating the way it warmed his insides, and made up for the stress and lack of sleep. “We really gotta be there at three thirty?” Ian asked, then, as Mickey stole his empty mug from his hand, and dumped it into the sink along with his own. 

“You already know the answer, which means it’s a dumbass question, and dumbass questions ain’t gonna keep you alive, Fish,” Mickey stated, as Ian followed him out into the living room, watching him take the car keys from the coffee table and continuing towards the front door. “Let’s head out.” 

The daylight was not even creeping in the distance - it was the darkest time of day. If it wasn’t for the various streetlights, and outdoor lights perched next to the front doors of the houses, he wouldn’t be able to see a thing. 

“I gotta present you,” Mickey stated, as he drove them towards the diner. 

“Present?”

“Yeah, it’s like a… like I gotta vouch for you, officially. That you deserve to be on the inside.”

“Okay,” Ian said, a thank you on the tip of his tongue that he decided to swallow. He had the feeling that Mickey wanted him to listen. 

“Then they’re gonna make you take the oath in Ukrainian, just repeat what they say, doesn’t have to be perfect. They’re gonna stab your finger with a needle for the blood oath.” 

“Is that it?”

“Think so, been a while since I was present for a ritual.”

As they arrived, they made their way in through the backdoor, and past the empty kitchen before making it to the basement door. The silence that had previously enveloped Ian, Mickey, and the world around was immediately broken by several conversations in both Ukrainian and English, blending into one another. 

Ian tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and nodded to everyone they passed - he didn’t know if some of them were on his own level, but better safe than sorry.  Finally, Mickey sat down in a chair outside of Aleksandr’s office, and he gestured for Ian to take the seat next to him.  Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then half an hour. Since there were so many people around - seemingly because it was more or less the middle of the night, and a good time for criminals to get things done - Ian chose not to speak to Mickey. Until forty minutes had passed. 

“What time’s it?” He whispered, leaning slightly closer to Mickey, who brought his wrist up to find out the answer. 

“Almost four thirty.” 

“So they’ll be here in half an hour?”

“Couple hours,” Mickey corrected. Ian frowned, and Mickey shook his head, silently telling him to wipe the irritation off of his face. “You’re early, they’re late, and you kiss their feet for showing up at all. That’s how this works. You got it?” 

Ian nodded. 

“так.”

“It’s так,” Mickey corrected his pronunciation. “It ain’t a D or a T sound, it’s in between.” 

“так.”

“That’s better.” 

Finally, around six thirty, the office door opened. Aleksandr was there, so was Mickey’s father. 

“Mikhailo. I understand you have two new members to present?” 

“That’s correct,” Mickey answered, and stood up. Ian found himself copying the action. So did another man a few chairs away, someone that Ian hadn’t paid any attention to before. 

He was scrawny, in a scrappy sort of way. Not much taller than Mickey, but built similarly, were he to put in a few pounds of hard earned muscle. He nodded to Mickey, clamping his hand around the back of his neck and knocking their temples together affectionately. Ian found that he very much detested the man- but quickly wiped that away when he realized he was being a bit crazy. 

Ian followed in behind Mickey, scanning the office as if it were his first time seeing the place- and really, wasn’t it, though? It was the first time he’d been there without being under duress, and he allowed the semi-calmness that his body provided to let him take in the surroundings. 

A big, beautiful wooden desk. The plush leather chairs. Those weren’t anything new, but what was new to him, were the pictures lining the walls- many of which he could easily pick Mickey out in. A picture of Mickey and his uncle, both dressed impeccably. A picture of Mickey holding a tiny baby (he assumed it was baby Yev), a picture of many, many people- Mickey near the front left, standing next to... the man who came in with them? 

“I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here today, Ignatius,” Aleksandr spoke, “...but not at all unhappy. I’m pleased you’ve finally decided to join the family. The real family.” 

“‘S my boy. Proud of you, son,” Terry added with a wink, and Ian didn’t miss the way that Mickey tensed at the words. 

So he was Mickey’s brother, it seemed. It made more sense that Mickey would allow himself to be touched by him- allowed affection from another man. At least, he told himself that Mickey would only allow his family to touch him. He didn’t want to think of another man’s hands on him. 

“Ian,” he was greeted next. “Thank you for taking care of Mikhailo after his accident yesterday.” 

Ian gave a nod, his calmness slowly slipping away at the reminder of the callousness of Mickey’s injuries. It was far more than an accident. It was a planned attack- planned by the very man addressing him, and Ian found himself disgusted by it. He wouldn’t show it, of course, he wanted to make a good impression, if only for Mickey’s sake. 

“I trust that you both know how this works,” Aleks said, standing in front of them, a solemn look about him that made Ian feel as if the gravity in the room were overly amplified. 

“Mikhailo, present them.” 

Mickey pushed past Ian, hand brushing against his lower back as he went, sending shivers up Ian’s spine. He cleared his throat and gestured to his brother. 

“Ignatius Milkovich, 27. Spent years on the outside, helping the family in various ways. He’s given his blood on multiple occasions for the family. He’s a strong and loyal soldier, pledging his allegiance to both myself and the family. He’s willing to give his life to protect what’s ours.”  And then Mickey gestured to Ian.  “Ian Gallagher, 23. He’s smart knows when to speak and when not to. He’s spent the last couple of months on the outside, but during that time has given both his blood, and the blood of another. He’s a strong and loyal soldier, pledging his allegiance to both myself and the family. He’s willing to give his life to protect what’s ours.”

Mickey and his brother had the same stance - backs straight, arms in front of them, one hand clasped around the opposite wrist. Ian held the same stance, hoping that he didn’t read as unsure nor as scared as he felt. 

“Very well,” Aleksandr spoke, and with that, Mickey took a few steps backwards, and Ignatius stepped forwards, so Ian did so as well, assuming Mickey’s brother, if anyone knew how to act in this situation. He didn’t look much younger than Mickey - in some of the photos he looked older - so Ian wondered what had kept him on the outside for so long. 

Now was not the time to let his mind wander, though. 

“Do you vow absolute compliance, and unwavering loyalty to the Uvorvykishki family?” 

“Так,” they confirmed in unison. 

“Дай мені пальці.”

Ignatius brought his hand over, palm facing upwards, so Ian assumes that it was time for the blood oath that Mickey had mentioned. Ian did the same, and the tips of their index fingers were scored with a small blade. 

Mickey’s father then brought a page over - one ripped out from a book; Ian doubted it was from the Bible, but it was the same thin, yellowed paper and small writing - writing Ian couldn’t understand, of course. 

Aleksandr squeezed each of their fingers until a drop of blood soaked through the page. Mickey’s father balled the page up, and then handed it over to Aleksandr. 

“Repeat after me,” Aleksandr said. “Я обіцяю цінувати цю сім'ю більше, ніж я ціную себе.”

“Я обіцяю цінувати цю сім'ю більше, ніж я ціную себе,” Ian repeated alongside Ignatius. 

“Обіцяю жити з цією сім’єю. Обіцяю померти з цією родиною.”

“Обіцяю жити з цією сім’єю. Обіцяю померти з цією родиною.”

“Жодне індивідуальне життя не буде для мене важливішим за добробут цієї родини. Це включає моє власне.”

“Жодне індивідуальне життя не буде для мене важливішим за добробут цієї родини. Це включає моє власне.”

“Якщо моя смерть піде на користь цій сім’ї, я покінчу життя самогубством.”

“Якщо моя смерть піде на користь цій сім’ї, я покінчу життя самогубством.” 

“я обіцяю.”

“я обіцяю.” 

Ian knew that he was stumbling over the words, but he did the best that he could, and thankfully, Ignatius’ perfect pronunciation helped mask Ian’s mistakes. 

Aleksandr brought the balled up page, and carefully lit it on fire. Ian could feel his stomach fall as he held it out towards Ian, but he took it, and assumed that he was meant to hand it to Ignatius. Thankfully, that seemed to be the right thing to do, as Ignatius took it, and returned it to Aleksandr, who blew it out - what was left of it - sending a cloud of ash their way. 

That seemed to be all there was to the ritual, because everyone in the room seemed to relax somewhat. Mickey’s father walked towards Ignatius, saying something in Ukrainian that sounded quite celebratory, before bumping their foreheads together. 

“How’s it feel, Fish?” Mickey appeared by Ian’s side, his hand brushing against his back for a split second before he moved it to clamp onto his shoulder. 

“Feels a whole lot like forever,” Ian mumbled back. “Did I just sacrifice my soul?” 

Mickey smirked and brushed his thumb across his swollen nose, drawing Ian’s attention away from the ritual and back to Mickey’s injured face. “Something like that,” he said, and gave Ian once last clap against his shoulder before moving on and hugging his brother.

Ian stood back, watching as Mickey's family gathered around each other- looking happy, it seemed. They smiled at each other, kissed each other’s faces, speaking in the language that Ian desperately needed to learn. And finally, Aleksandr turned his attention to Ian, walking toward him slowly. 

“Ian,” he almost cooed, cupping Ian’s jaws in both of his hands, leaning forward and kissing each of his cheeks. “You’re one of us now. That means that anything you need, let us know and we’ll help you. And you’ll do the same for us. Please, don’t let us down.” Ian nodded, and Aleksandr patted his cheek before pushing him away and wandering back toward his desk. 

“Gentleman,” he said, “we’ll be in touch. You’re free to go for now.”

They did so, and the second that Ian stepped foot out of the diner and onto the asphalt, he took a deep breath, thinking fresh air had never felt so good before. He hadn’t realized that his heart had been beating so fast down there, but now he could appreciate it slowing down. 

Instead of getting into the car, Mickey leaned against the facade, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket, offering the pack to Ian, who accepted. They stood there for a moment, in silence, breathing the tobacco into their lungs, before watching it dance out into the pale morning. 

“Never told me you had a brother,” Ian mused, chancing a glance at Mickey, who stared out at nothing. 

“Got two,” Mickey huffed. “And a sister.” 

“They all got weird names?” Ian questioned, placing his cigarette back in between his smirking lips. Mickey turned to look at him. 

“Fuck off, man.” There was no heat in the words. “Mickey ain’t weird.”

“Mikhailo,” Ian pointed out. “Ignatius?” 

“On the street, he’s just Iggy,” Mickey said, for once ignoring Ian’s use of his full name. Then he dropped the cigarette onto the street and stomped it out. “Got somewhere to be,” Mickey said then, heading towards the car. “Don’t be a sunfish.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, according to Yev, they’re the dumbest ones.”

“How can a fish be dumb?” Mickey’s hand had been resting on the roof of the car, and he brought it up, before letting it fall back down, in replacement of a shrug. 

“I don’t know, man - just don’t be stupid, s’all I meant.” 

“I’ll be fine. Catch you later.”

Mickey drove off, and Ian was left with the realization that he should probably go back to the house and see his siblings, make sure they knew he was okay. Then he looked down and realized that he would have to do so dressed in a suit that cost more than their monthly bills, and he would have some explaining to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Yes."  
> "It's 'Yes'."
> 
> "Yes."  
> "Give me your fingers."
> 
> "I vow to value this family more than I value myself."  
> "I vow to value this family more than I value myself."  
> "I vow to live by this family. I vow to die by this family."  
> "I vow to live by this family. I vow to die by this family."  
> "No individual life will be more important to me than the well-being of this family. This includes my own."  
> "No individual life will be more important to me than the well-being of this family. This includes my own."  
> "If my death benefits this family, I shall commit suicide."   
> "If my death benefits this family, I shall commit suicide."   
> "I vow."  
> "I vow."


	11. eleven

“Fiona’s been asking about you,” Ian said into the receiver, back firmly against the wall, fingers tangling in the long, spiral cord. 

“ _Tell her she’s ain’t my type_ ,” the other end of the line crackled, forcing Ian to roll his eyes. He groaned , and the throaty, distorted sound of Mickey’s laugh came through, and Ian fought away the little pitter patter in his stomach. 

“She wants you to come to dinner soon. Should I tell her you’re too good for us? I’ve seen your house. You definitely don’t belong here,” Ian teased as he heard the unmistakable sound of a match being lit. 

“ _Uh huh. Tell her I wouldn’t be caught dead with your red headed freckled ass._ ” 

“How would you know my ass has freckles?” Ian quipped, and immediately cringed in on himself, wishing more than anything that he could turn back the clock and say anything, anything at all other than... that. 

“ _Educated guess. Look, that’s actually why I called you,_ ” Mickey informed on an exhale. 

“To ask about my ass? Gee, Mick. I dunno. I don’t think that was in the oath.” God, why couldn’t he just shut up? Mickey, or anyone really, was bound to at the very least kick his ass for talking that way. 

“ _Jesus Christ. You’re a fucking idiot. No. Fuck. We got a family dinner. You’re expected to be there. ‘S tomorrow night. Gonna have to get sharp._ ” 

“Okay… uh. Where? Anything I need to do?” Ian asked nervously- the cord twisted around his finger becoming tighter and tighter. 

“ _Just come with an appetite for sauerkraut, man. Don’t worry about it. I’ll come by and grab you at six. Got it?_ ” 

Ian didn’t have time to say anything before there was a click and the sound of the dial tone filling his ears. He sighed again and hung up the phone, worrying his lip between his teeth.  Ian was unsure of how he should dress for this ‘family dinner’ but he figured that he was better off overdressed than underdressed, so he ended up putting the suit back on - no matter how uncomfortable he felt wrapped in the expensive fabric. 

Thankfully, the house was empty, so he didn’t have to explain his attire to his siblings - eventually the time would come, but it wasn’t now.  Now he was exiting the house, and making his way towards the black Chevrolet. As he got into the passenger seat, he felt a lot less out of place than he had a few months ago - he decided that that was a good thing; it wasn’t as if there was a way to turn back now. 

“Have a smoke, you smell all… clean,” Mickey grumbled, throwing the pack to Ian, along with a lighter. 

“So do you,” Ian shot back, wondering why he felt offended by such a comment. Mickey didn’t respond with more than a weak gesture Ian’s way. Ian knew what he meant though - he probably shouldn’t smell of sweat and grime, but it would do him good to have some ash on his tie. “How many people are gonna be there? The whole family?”

“Hell no, man. That’s hundreds of people. Just gonna be like twenty five or somethin’”

“Why am I invited?” Ian couldn’t help but question, the smoke escaping out through his lips. 

Mickey sighed in a way that told Ian he wasn’t all too keen on answering that question. 

“Look, it ain’t that they don’t trust you - you wouldn’t be in if they didn’t. But you ain’t like most soldiers, so they gonna keep you on a short leash for a while.”

“Because I’m not Ukrainian?”

“And most associates stay associates for a couple years before they become soldiers.”  Ian knew that, distantly, maybe. It made sense. Gotta prove your worth; that you were loyal to not only the family as a whole, but to each individual person. But then, what made him so special? Why could he bypass rules and regulations and who knows how long worth of traditions. So, he asked. 

“Why me?” 

“Why you, what?”  Ian groaned and tossed his head back against the seat, wishing more than anything that Mickey could just read his mind so that he wouldn’t have to explain himself. 

“Why me. Why... let me in?”  Mickey cast a glance to the side, just a little look at Ian, before he licked him bottom lip and turned back to the road. 

“Yevgeny really vouched for you.” 

“I- what? Yevgeny?” To say Ian was confused would be a massive understatement. A three year old making-

“Yeah, Ian. My son makes big fucking decisions like that,” Mickey snorted, giving Ian a perfect view of his slightly imperfect smile and blue, so blue in the fading evening sun, eyes. He was struck dumb momentarily, clearing his throat and feeling all the more stupid. It seemed Mickey had a habit of making his intelligence go right out of the fucking window. 

“God you’re an ass, man,” Ian sighed, but laughed just as quickly when Mickey said, 

“Yeah, I do like a good ass.” 

The drive took a decent amount of time. Long enough for the houses to change from dilapidated little shit holes, to respectable white picket American dreams, to houses like Mickey’s (where Ian could never dream of living) to downright sprawling estates. Ian hadn’t even known that places like this existed, let alone not even an hour away from his own home. 

“Alright, Fish, listen,” Mickey got serious when he pulled into a gated neighborhood- the houses resembling something royalty would live in. “Same rules as always. You don’t speak unless spoken to, alright? I’m gonna do my best not to leave you, but, shit happens. You just need to keep cool and keep your trap fucking shut.” 

And well, if that didn’t amp up his nerves- nothing would. Ian swallowed around his tongue that seemed to inexplicably go numb with worry, but he nodded his understanding anyway. 

“And for fuck’s sake, try not to get cornered by my pops. He’s loyal and important. But he’s a mean bastard and he’s not gonna have anything nice to say to you, okay? Just - just stay away from him.”

“I’ll try,” Ian promised, perhaps more so to himself than to Mickey. Mickey pulled the car to a stop, next to one of the largest houses around - similar to Mickey’s in the Mediterranean style, with the sandstone facade, and multiple stories, but several times larger. Ian doubted he had ever been inside of an apartment building this size, much less a single home. 

“Whose house is this?” Ian couldn’t help but question as they made their way past the array of cars already there, heading towards the front door. 

“Aleks’,” Mickey replied before entering the door, not bothering to knock. “дядько Олександр! Я тут, я приніс рибу!” 

“ми у вітальні!” 

“What’s that mean?” Ian questioned quietly as he followed Mickey through a bright hallway, towards an expansive living room. He figured if he had to learn the language, he needed to ask some questions, even if it would end up annoying Mickey. 

“Just asking us to come into the living room,” Mickey informed him quickly, right as they entered, a group of men gathering around them, greeting Mickey happily - some dressed like Ian, some dressed somewhat more casually in just suspenders, shirt and slacks. 

Ian felt, well... he felt horridly out of place. The rigidity in his back was unmatched- the rest of the men casually draped around the room; arms over the back of the couch, cigars in mouths. Ian tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to slouch his shoulders in nonchalance. Just as Mickey did exactly what he said he wouldn’t do; he left Ian. 

He looked in his element, Ian couldn’t help but notice. His face was mostly healed, at least the swelling had left his features mostly where they’d found them, and the bruises had faded from an inky, angry purple, replaced instead by a more welcoming mustard yellow. He looked good, though, happy, as he went willingly into hugs and let his cheeks be kissed. 

It was a little odd, Ian had to admit. He didn’t come from an area of town that lead to open affection- or from a family that was quite so handsy. But this family- these people in this place, seemed comfortable with it. He only hoped that he wouldn’t be expected to join in. 

No such luck, apparently. 

“Ian,” Aleksandr smiled when he spotted the red beacon in the sea of brunettes. “So happy that you could make it,” he told him, cupping his jaw just as he had the last time he’d seen him. Ian did his best to smile back, didn’t even flinch when the man kissed his cheek and turned him to the crowd. 

“Gentleman,” he called. “This is one of Mikhailo’s new men, Ian Gallagher. I expect you all to treat him well. He’s a sworn member now.” 

There was a chorus, a literal chorus of greetings, or at least what Ian assumed was a greeting, as he couldn’t understand a word they said. He gave a feeble wave back, eyeing the amused smirk that Mickey was sporting in his direction. If he wasn’t expected to show respect, he would have given him a single finger salute, but as it were- he’d seen what disrespect garnered, and it looked painful. 

“Don’t let these assholes worry you, Ian,” Aleksandr told him, breaking from his usual morose tone. “They’re good men. And they’re ready for good food, ah?”

As everybody filed into a large dining room, everybody took their places around the long table like they had done it for years - many of them surely had. Ian didn’t end up sitting next to Mickey, and while a part of him wished he had, another part of him was glad. He was smart enough to realize that he wouldn’t be able to rely on Mickey all the time - he needed to learn to speak the language himself, in more ways than one. 

Ian didn’t recognize any of the food, and since the room was drowning in Ukrainian chatter, he didn’t feel comfortable asking. Some of it looked good - several different kinds of filled dough, and what looked like some potato pancakes. Some of it looked okay - a bright red soup that everyone spooned sour cream into. And some of it looked… terrifying. 

“That’s холодець, kid,” the man next to Ian informed him. “You’re gonna wanna avoid that, no one’s gonna blame you.” 

“Roger that,” Ian gave him a nod, thankful for the help - although he wasn’t sure that he could have brought himself to eat a piece of the meat-filled, see-through jelly anyway. He may have murdered a man, but some things were just too far. 

As the night went on - as various kinds of alcohol were swallowed, and as the mountains of food on the serving platters shrunk - Ian slowly found himself relaxing. At least somewhat. No one was talking to him anyway, he was minding his own business. 

At one point, he braved a look at Mickey, where he sat at the other end of the table, right next to Aleksandr - who was of course on the short end, highlighting his role as top dog. 

Ian had never quite seen Mickey smile this much - he was looking around, seemingly carrying a few different conversations all at once - the older men were clasping his shoulder, holding him around the back of the neck - like they were proud of him. Although it did interest Ian to see Mickey like this - so within his own element - something seemed… off. Mickey’s mouth was smiling, but there was something missing. Something in his eyes, or perhaps even his body language. As if he was putting on a show. 

Ian watched, entranced, as another clap was delivered to Mickey’s back before the other man, whom Ian was pretty sure named something like Bogdan(?), turned around and away from Mickey. Nearly as soon as he did, Mickey’s smile faded completely and he took to his glass of deep brown whiskey, and sent a gulp of it down his throat. 

He set his glass down, and as he did, his eyes cast down the table to Ian’s, almost as if a magnet had pulled them down that way. He kept them steady on Ian’s, for probably a little too long, neither blinking nor smiling. And then Mickey turned to his uncle, smile pasted back on, before getting up from his chair. He looked to Ian once more, tapping the pocket of his trousers, where Ian knew he kept his cigarettes. Mickey jerked his head and headed out, signalling for Ian to follow. 

“You gotta teach me how to speak your language,” Ian said once they’d both made it outside and Mickey was handing over a smoke and lighting up. 

“Ah, you stupid Irishman,” Mickey smiled (one that crinkled his eyes, Ian noted) and said in an accent as if he truly were from Ukraine, “You could not learn. Brain is too small.” 

“Fuck you, asshole,” Ian grinned and playfully punched at Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Nah, we’ll learn ya real good, Fish. Don’t worry about it... how’s it going in there? Not too bad, huh?” 

“Nah. Not too bad. The guy I was next to- Christian?” 

“Krystiyan,” Mickey corrected absently, blowing out his smoke. 

“Right. He made sure I didn’t eat the nasty shit. He’s nice,” Ian shrugged. “Everyone’s been pretty nice.” 

“Yeah, most of ‘em aren’t too bad. Just, uh, just maybe don’t go around them without me. At least for a while, alright? You shouldn’t ever need to. You work for me. But still, just... don’t.” 

“Alright, Mick. I won’t,” Ian said softly, feeling strangely protected- and it made him feel... well shit, kind of made him feel good. 

If Mickey had a problem with the nickname, he didn’t say. He only nodded, satisfied that his words settled nicely over Ian, and he didn’t have to fight him in them. 

“How long do these parties usually last?”

“Sometimes overnight. But once everybody gets blitzed, you and I are out of here. They’re likely to start fighting, and we’re not gonna be a part of that. Those fuckers fight dirty.” 

A part of Ian wanted to thank Mickey for protecting him, but he had long since realized that Mickey didn’t particularly enjoy verbal expressions of gratitude, so he kept himself from it. 

Instead, his eyes fell onto Mickey’s side profile, following the smoke that escaped out through his parted lips, before drifting back to the dark eyelashes. Ian knew that it was risky, but Mickey wasn’t looking at him, instead seemingly lost in his own thoughts, so Ian took a moment to appreciate him. If only because he knew all too well that he was too far gone to be able to lie to himself anymore. There was no point. 

The light slipping out through the window gave his pale skin a warmer cast, highlighting every scar and blemish. Every crease; signs of stress and worry that someone their age shouldn’t be carrying. Mickey was the definition of a bad guy on the surface - mob trash. But Ian knew that there was something else in there, too. Something warmer. He had seen it. If only for brief moments in time. 

Christ, he wanted to kiss him. 

Ian jumped at the sound of the front door opening behind him, but gathered himself just as quickly, as he and Mickey both turned to face Krystiyan. 

“They’re bringing out the horilka.”

Horilka - as it turned out - was alcohol. And it didn’t take long before the living room was littered with half-drunk men - draped over the couch and chairs, laughing and conversing loudly - louder with each drink. 

Ian accepted one glass, but drank it slowly. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle alcohol, or that he didn’t enjoy getting buzzed. He just figured that this wasn’t the right situation for it. He felt as if he was barely holding his own while sober. 

Mickey didn’t seem to drink much, either - in fact, while he was holding one, Ian doubted he had ever caught him placing the rim to his lips. He was involved in the conversation, though, so eventually - after about two hours of listening to loud, drunken, Ukrainian rambling, Ian snuck out of the room, heading for the front door, desperate for some fresh air, and perhaps another cigarette. 

It didn’t take more than a few seconds of Ian standing out in the chill Chicago air before the door opened behind him, and he heard the sound of Mickey’s voice behind him. 

“Ribs intact?”

“Nose, too,” Ian confirmed, with a slight smile as he handed his cigarette over to Mickey, who waved him off, lighting his own. 

“Don’t get used to it,” Mickey mumbled, but it was so quiet that Ian thought he might have imagined it. 

They only smoked half before putting them out. Ian hoped that their absence was yet to be discovered. They stomped the cigarettes out, and then Ian opened the door, immediately greeted by the sight of Mickey’s father, towering over him. Well - technically, he wasn’t taller than Ian, but with his energy, and the way he stared him down, he might as well have measured eight feet. 

“Fuck are you Nancys out here for?” Came the gruff voice from Mickey’s dad, and Ian’s back stiffened in response. He worried, briefly, that maybe he knew something he shouldn’t, but Mickey didn’t seem caught off guard, so Ian tried to mimic his calmness. 

“Smoking,” Mickey shrugged, looking a little annoyed, both otherwise, he seemed fine. But Ian knew from watching him inside that he was a good actor- that when no one else could see the way the muscles of his face tensed up in a smile, Ian could- at least he thought so. 

“So you’re Mikhailo’s new toy, huh?” He sneered, ignoring Mickey completely and lighting up a cigar of his own. 

“Lay off the fish, pops. Kid doesn’t know his left from his right yet. Don’t scare him off already.” Mickey’s tone was light, and maybe even jovial, teasing, in a way. But Ian, eagle eyed Ian, could see the calmness that he’d just taken note of slip away. Mickey stood a little straighter and let his arms fall to his sides, loose and... ready? Ian wasn’t sure, but the change was enough to set his heart pumping anyway. 

“Was I talking to you? I wasn’t. So mind your own fucking business,” Terry spat before turning back to Ian. “So you-”

But Mickey stopped him again. 

“But see, it kinda is my business though. He works for me. He’s my guy,” Mickey pointed out, and if it were any other time and place, Ian might scrutinize the words- try to find some hidden meaning. But as it were, he stood stock still, looking between the two as they seemed to square off. 

“And you’re mine,” Terry bellowed. “Which means you don’t fucking talk to me like that, you little shit. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but it’s gonna stop. ‘Less you didn’t learn your lesson last time?” 

Mickey seemed to shy away at that, shrink just a little, just a fraction. Almost imperceptibly, but Ian noticed because he couldn’t take his eyes off of him. 

“That’s what I thought,” he dad said, addressing the quiet that came from Mickey. 

“Anyway, Ian,” Terry pronounced, eyeing Mickey angrily before turning back to him. “Kinda gals you like? We’ll get you initiated the right way. Get you some pussy so good you’ll forget your own na-”

“Yeah. Okay,” Mickey said, voice coming out hard and strong. “You need to back the fuck off now, Terry. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

“And I ain’t gonna tell you again ‘neither, son,” Terry took a step closer to Mickey, and raised his hand up into the air. 

“Mickey, back off,” Ian heard his own voice interrupt, Terry losing his momentum, hand slowly falling back to his side as he looked over at Ian, a pleased smile on his face - not a kind one, but pleased nonetheless. 

“The fish can bark,” he mused, one of his hands reaching forwards to clamp onto Ian’s shoulder, shaking him back and forth once or twice. Ian wondered distantly whether ‘ _the fish can bark_ ’ was a saying made up by an old, wise, Ukrainian professor, or the alcohol drowning Terry’s bloodstream. Ian would bet on the latter. “You found someone with bigger balls than you, Mikhailo - not that it’s all that difficult.” Terry then looked to Ian, nodding towards Mickey. “Kid’s a bit of a batty boy, ain’t he?” 

Ian knew that Terry was testing him - was expecting an answer. So what was Ian supposed to do? He couldn’t say no, because then his nose and ribs surely wouldn’t be intact anymore. He couldn’t say yes, Mickey didn’t deserve that. But the longer he waited, the tighter the hand around his shoulder seemed to grow. 

“Don’t be a hero, Fish,” Ian heard Mickey mumble under his breath, and out of his peripheral vision, Ian caught him thumbing the top of his nose. It was barely loud enough that Ian heard it, but apparently Terry had super hearing. 

“What was that, boy? I’m telling you - ще одне слово з ваших потворних уст, і ви не доживете до ранку!”

The sheer volume of the way that Terry screamed the foreign words made Ian want to curl up into a ball and cover his ears, but Mickey seemed unbothered; used to it. 

Terry raised his hand into the air once again, but before it could meet Mickey’s cheek, three fingers curled around his wrist, and for the very first time in his life, Ian felt relieved to see Aleksandr. Slowly, Ian realized that they had obtained a crowd in the entryway, all curious to see what was about to go down. 

“Gentlemen...” Aleksandr spoke calmly. “Everyone has had a lot to drink tonight. I think it would be a good idea to call it a night, yes? Lower your hand, Terentius.”

Terry’s eyes were dark enough that they should have burned holes in Mickey’s. He did, however, lower his hand, and turn to look at Aleksandr. It seemed the only person who was allowed to tell Terry what to do was his older brother. 

  
  


Ian stood still, watching the crowd dissipate. Watching as the men looked a little disappointed that there wasn’t more to the scuffle. It set Ian’s stomach on fire, to think that they’d all want to see blood. It wasn’t right. Not from someone they called family. 

“You okay?” Ian asked, taking a step towards Mickey. 

“Fuck you asking me that for?” Mickey barked, taking his own step back. “You don’t get to talk to me like that, you got me? You wait for me to tell you to jump, then you ask me how high and you fucking thank me for acknowledging you at all.” 

Ian furrowed his brows- confused at the sudden outburst. Even more so by the way Mickey’s chest heaved with every breath and the shaky way he held his cigarette. He wanted to push, to tell him it was okay and fuck, maybe even hug him or some shit, but the way Mickey looked- it would be suicide. So instead, he just nodded. 

“Yeah, Mick. Okay.” 

“My name is fucking Mickey. Not Mick. Not Mikhailo. Fucking Mickey. Christ you’re stupid. And I’m stupid for bringing you on.” 

It hurt, really hurt, more than he would have thought. But he didn’t let it show. He wasn’t- couldn’t look weak. Not then, when Mickey was showing his own weakness. And if Mickey needed a punching bag, Ian guessed he could allow it, if only to keep him sane. 

“I’m not gonna let anyone fuck with you, alright? Not Terry. Not any of them,” Mickey murmured after a long while, taking a hit of his smoke and leaning over the deck railing.

Ian had been around long enough to know an apology when he heard one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "Uncle Aleksandr! I'm here, I brought Fish!"   
> "We're in the living room!"
> 
> "That's kholodets*, kid."   
> *Kholodets: A savory jelly (aspic), eaten in Ukraine and parts of Russia. Usually filled with different kinds of meat.
> 
> "One more word from your ugly lips and you won't live to see the morning!"


	12. twelve

After the dinner, Ian didn’t see, nor hear from Mickey in nearly a week. Around the fifth day, he was becoming quite antsy - because he had quit his day job, and he needed to receive an order so that he could help Fiona pay for some of the bills. That was the reason why it brought him relief to pick up the phone on a Thursday evening, and hear Mickey’s voice drift into his ear. That reason, and that reason alone. 

“ _Gotta job for you, Fish. Got pen and paper?_ ” 

Ian didn’t get much more than an address and a brief description of the person who owed them money, but he didn’t need much more. 

“You leavin’?” Fiona questioned, as they nearly knocked heads in the doorway. She had her arms full of food wrapped in foil, clearly ready for a full family dinner - the real kind - and Ian felt bad, but he also knew that him going to work would benefit them all more. 

“Going to work,” he explained. Thankfully, his siblings knew not to ask too many questions - many people around these parts balanced on the edge of legal, and non-legal work. And so far he had been able to hide the stacks of money under his bed in the form of shoes and clothes. 

“Okay, be safe.” 

“I will!” 

Ian got into the car that he had on loan from the family - it wasn’t nearly as nice as the ones Mickey drove, but it got him where he needed to go. The address he had been given was in a neighborhood that he recognized, so it didn’t take him very long to find the coffee shop he was expected to go into. There seemed to be a pattern - small businesses who were failing and didn’t have any other choice but to borrow money from guys like Mickey. Ian pushed any faint hint of sympathy away, and then he got out of the car, making his way to the door, letting his knuckles tap a loud rhythm onto the surface. 

No answer. He knocked again. Finally, he saw a movement, and a man probably younger than himself opened the door. 

“I’m just closing up -“

“Not here for coffee. Here for the money,” he skipped any greetings or pleasantries. 

“Money?” The man looked at him like Ian had the wrong person - he didn’t. Clearly he didn’t find Ian very intimidating. But he should. Ian brought the small blade out of his pocket, and pressed it against the man’s throat, backing them into the store. He didn’t press hard enough to draw blood, but it was close. 

“Yes. Money.”

Physical threats always worked. Ian left the coffee shop with a hundred dollars in cash. He drove towards the abandoned parking lot, thankfully making it there before Mickey, although he arrived within a few minutes. When they got out of their cars, Ian could immediately feel the change in between them. For a while, it had almost felt as if they were becoming… friends. Now, Mickey merely spared him a nod as he took the envelope of cash, carefully counting it out. 

“Good. Here’s your cut,” he handed a thin stack back to Ian. Was it considered rude to count the cash as someone handed it to you? Ian thought it might be, but he couldn’t be bothered to worry about it when he looked down to see multiple ones and even a five. 

“Ten bucks?” He squeaked, very rarely ever having that much money at once. “Are you sure? Mickey, that’s almost as much as I made in a whole week at the ice cream shop.” Mickey shrugged and stuffed the rest in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, tapping it in securely for good measure. 

“I take care of my men. And you’re gonna need to save up- you need new clothes and I ain’t buying them all.” 

“Okay. Uh, yeah. I can do that... but, um. Wh-where do I go? For... those types of clothes?” Mickey sighed and rolled his eyes, clearly anything but thrilled at having to teach Ian practically everything he knew. But, he gave another shrug of his shoulder and relented. 

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes. And I was thinking that I’m gonna have you work at the diner some, too. Need a cook. So if you don’t know how, you better learn fast.” Ian nodded along, a little unhappy for this particular task, but happy none the less to be able to tell his family that he was doing something legal to bring in the dough. 

“Sure, Mick - uh, Mick _ey_. I can do that. No problem.” He hated the way he sounded- like some little boy trying to please his dad. It wasn’t how he usually took to speaking to people, but with the current climate between the two of them, he figured it was probably best to err on the side of caution.

“Be at the place tomorrow. Seven am.” With that, he turned around, heading back towards his car. Ian looked back down at the cash in his hand, Mickey’s words finally registering with him. 

“Wait, does that mean six?” He mumbled to himself. “Mickey, does that mean six?!” But Mickey was already burning rubber out of the parking lot. 

✦✦✦

Ian figured that he would be in a lot less trouble if he was too early than if he was too late, so he entered the diner around six fifteen the next morning. 

“Ian! Come here sweetheart,” Dorothy immediately greeted him, pulling him down by the neck to place a kiss to his cheek. He returned it, smiling at her. 

“Dorothy, you look wonderful, as always,” he assured her. The elderly woman blushed at that, waving him off. “Is Mickey here yet?”

“No, not yet, honey. Sit down, let me get you some breakfast.” Ian was about to interrupt her, seeing as he was used to not having any money, but then he realized that he had given Fiona enough to get the electricity back on, and he still had just enough for a meal. 

“Coffee and a bagel, thank you.”

It didn’t take long for her to place his order in front of him - he ate it, and Mickey still hadn’t walked through the doors. In fact, he didn’t show up until seven twenty.

Dorothy greeted him with a cheek kiss, and Ian overheard her inform him that Ian had been waiting for over an hour. Ian swallowed down his annoyance as Mickey sat down on the opposite side of the booth. 

“Been here since six? Good - Dorothy, can I have some waffles, please? Thank you.” Ian desperately wanted to ask Mickey why they couldn’t just agree on a time when they both showed up, but he figured that it wasn’t the right time, so he kept his mouth shut. 

“Got to pay my electric bill,” Ian told him sheepishly, trying anything that he could think of to break their spell of cold professionalism. He hated it. Kind of, well no, he actually missed Mickey’s usual banter in place of the calculated, steady face in front of him. 

“Glad to hear it,” Mickey nodded along, not saying much at all. “Be a lot more where that came from f’you keep your head down and do what I tell you.” 

“Yeah, I will. Felt, y’know, good to alleviate some of Fiona’s stress.” 

“Mhmm,” Mickey mumbled, leaning back in his seat as his food (apparently already made before he’d even gotten there), was set in front of him. “Thanks, Dorothy.” 

“Is this...” Ian started, but caught himself waiting until their kindly waitress had ambled off. “Is this how it’s gonna be now?” 

“What’re you talking about?” 

“Us. This. I thought we were... I don’t know...”

“What, you thought we were friends?” Mickey asked, scoffing as if Ian were asking the dumbest question he could, and Ian felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “That’s not how this works. I tell you to jump-”

“I ask how high. Right. You said that. But I-”

“But nothing, Fish. I’m your boss. You can’t handle that, then let’s see if you can handle a bullet in your head, cause that’s your only way out now. So why don’t you be a good boy and go back in the kitchen and see how you can help out.” 

Ian pinched his mouth tight and fought the urge to roll his eyes, fingers vibrating and itching for a fight. But it wouldn’t be fair, no matter what, and certainly his insubordination wouldn’t be taken too kindly to. So he did what any sensible man would do- he nodded curtly and stood from the booth. 

And if he caught Mickey’s shoulders sagging as he went, he didn’t think anything of it.

Ian had a lot of experience working in various kinds of commercial kitchens, so it didn’t take more than an hour of Dorothy's help before he felt comfortable. The recipes the diner used were on a cork board above the sink, and the day wasn’t busy, so Ian was able to take his time to figure out which temperature to cook the pancakes and hash browns at to get them the perfect color, as well as how strong to make the coffee. For a while, he was able to pretend. He could focus on nothing but folding the waffle iron closed, or scooping the ground coffee into the filter, or flipping the bacon onto the plate - and he could pretend. Forget. He could tell himself that he was back at a job that was completely legal. That he was working in a diner that was just a diner, rather than a diner that was a front for organized crime. 

The lunch rush came and went, and though Ian was alone in the kitchen, as Dorothy was needed in the front; everything went quite smoothly. He could cook four waffles at the same time, the griddle was large enough for an entire pack of bacon, and a few burgers - and the deep fryer could handle several servings of fries at once. 

“Doing pretty good?” 

The voice nearly caused Ian to flinch, as he had been wrapped up in his own thoughts, thankful that the orders had slowed down. He flipped the last pancake onto the stack, and placed it into the serving window, ringing the bell. 

“Yeah.” He gave Mickey a nod, turning back to continue cooking, only to realize that he didn’t have any more orders right now, and he didn’t have a choice but to turn back around and face whatever Mickey wanted to say. So he did so, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks beneath his apron. 

“Anyone give you any trouble?” Mickey asked, mirroring Ian’s stance and tucking his own hands. 

“No,” Ian told him honestly, dipping his eyebrows down. “Of course not. Plus, even if they did... think I could take ‘em.” Ian cocked his head in the direction of the other staff, an overwhelming percentage being sweet old ladies, and Mickey gave a little chuckle. 

“I dunno, man. Dorothy has a mean right hook.” 

Ian smiled, almost imperceptibly, and looked to the greasy floor. “You want me to make you something? Getting pretty good at this, I think.” 

“Oh you are, are you?” Mickey smirked, making Ian roll his eyes and his smile grow. 

“Yeah, well. S’not rocket science or anything. Think I can throw you a burger together.” 

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, there.” Ian breathed out harshly, a mimicry of a laugh. He wasn’t offended, not really, he knew Mickey was teasing him, but he didn’t know why. Weren’t they strictly professional? Mickey made it more than abundantly clear that it was a business relationship- and not even really that. It was boss and servant, for all intents and purposes. 

“Something you need, Mickey?” 

“Just making sure you got a hang of this part,” Mickey admitted, casually, before bringing his thumb to the end of his eyebrow, scratching an itch as Ian moved some of the dirty dishes into the sink. 

“This part?”

“Yeah.” Mickey nodded, going over to the window separating the kitchen from the rest of the diner, reaching up to pull down the divider. Ian watched him with caution and slight confusion as he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “You good at math?” 

“I do okay,” Ian shrugged. 

“‘Cause I need someone up here to hand out the loans and keep track of what we got on the street.” 

“You give out loans?”

“How’d you think we made dough?” 

“Flour and water?” Mickey was decent at hiding his amusement, but Ian thought he could see the edges of his lips flinching upwards, _ever_ so slightly. 

“People come in here, they ask to speak to the cook about their allergies. You take their names and they gotta bring you a picture of them with their family so they ain’t lyin’ - you give ‘em the cash they want. Hand the info to me and I got it from there, think you can do that?” Ian nodded immediately. 

“Yeah, I can do that - um… where’s…” He trailed off when Mickey opened up the walk-in pantry, and pushed the bag of sugar aside, opening a hidden hatch in the wall, revealing piles of fresh cash. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ian gasped, eyes growing to the size of saucers, heart racing fast as anything. It was more cash than he’d ever seen combined, let alone at once. He was fucking floored. 

“I don’t need to tell you what happens to you if any of this shit goes missing, do I?” 

Ian gaped at him, understanding falling over him. He knew, distantly what it would mean for him, but it didn’t change the fact that his brain needed a second to catch up to speed. But it did, and he shook his head. 

“But what happens if I... if I miscalculate or something?” 

“You better just pray that you don’t,” Mickey shrugged and closed the hatch back up. 

“Mick, I-” Ian mumbled, still shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can handle that...” 

Mickey let out a noise from his throat as his face twisted up in disbelief. 

“So you can stab some poor fuck to death, but you can’t count out a few bills?” 

Ian hadn’t thought... well, he hadn’t thought about that for a few days (despite dreaming about it nearly every night), and anger flared through him at the accusation. It wasn’t as if he wanted to -kill- someone. He was forced. His hands were tied. 

“...and fuck you for bringing that up,” he finished his thought verbally, eyes growing wide as he said it. He hadn’t meant to, and he braced himself for a punch or a backhand or, or something, but Mickey didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he shrunk back a little and ran his thumb across his eyebrow. 

“Look, all I’m saying is, is that you’ll be fine, Fish. You’re... tougher than you look or some shit, alright? Just, don’t stress this small shit when you’ve already done the big shit.” With a last sigh, Mickey turned to go once more, but Ian stopped him. 

“How’d you know?” 

“Huh?” Mickey asked as he faced him once more. 

“How’d you know I stabbed him? What, your cleaner tell you or something?” Mickey laughed, though it held no mirth. 

“Everyone tells me everything, Ian.” And with that, he was gone.

After that, Ian continued working, telling himself to focus on nothing but the strong scent of the coffee maker, and the popping of the hot oil, forcing out any thoughts of blood that Mickey might have dragged back up to the surface. Around eight thirty, Iggy came up from the basement, and on his way out, he dismissively let Ian know that Mickey said he could leave around ten. He did so, and by the time he made it home, he was so exhausted that he barely had enough energy to greet his sister. 

✦✦✦

The next morning, Ian got back up, and made it to the diner around six thirty - he knew that they opened at seven, but he wasn’t about to be late by Mickey’s standards. Not that it mattered, because he didn’t see him when he arrived, and pretty soon he forgot all about his boss as Dorothy let him know that someone had asked to speak to him about their allergies. 

Ian took a breath, and invited the man into the kitchen - he couldn’t tell his age - his skin said fifties, but the greying hair around his temples said sixties. 

“I’m in a little bit of trouble. A friend of mine said that you could help me out?” 

Ian folded his arms over his chest, knowing that he needed to work a little bit harder than Mickey or his family in order to appear intimidating. 

“How much?” 

“Five hundred?” The man asked, and Ian heard himself give a whistle as a response to the high number - apparently this was who he was now. 

“Name?” 

“Robert. Robert Copeland. I uh… I heard you want pictures of my family?” He continued, reaching a hand into his pocket, giving Ian a small photograph which showed him with a woman a few decades younger, and a little girl about ten years old. “Are you gonna hurt them?”

“That’s not my department,” Ian told him, before heading over to the pantry - which was thankfully out of view from the man; but even if it hadn’t been - Ian doubted there was a human being on earth dumb enough to steal from the mob. 

“Here you go,” Ian handed the bills over to the man. “Have a nice day.” There was a slight hint of sarcasm in the words he threw out as he watched the man leave. 

Ian was on his feet for the rest of the day, and wasn’t able to sit down until closing time, when he poured himself a glass of water, and took a seat on a stool in the kitchen. 

“Aye, Fish -“ Mickey came barging in, causing Ian to nearly jump out of his skin. “Target practice tomorrow, nine am.”

✦✦✦

Ian got to a row of abandoned buildings- old and decrepit, with bits of concrete falling down, roofs caved in- it looked entirely unsafe, and not at all someplace that Ian would expect to be waiting at eight thirty in the morning. But Mickey had told him to jump, and Ian had asked how high, and then thanked him for acknowledging him. The thought sat bitter on his tongue, the lackey he’d become. Once upon a time he’d had dreams. Big dreams- of getting out of Chicago and making something of himself. He was gonna be someone special. Not someone’s glorified errand boy. 

But then he remembered, again, that his family had electric thanks to his errand running. They had electric, and soon they’d have full bellies and shit, maybe even a family car if he kept his head down and played his cards right. 

Ian checked the watch tucked deep in his pocket- old and scratched, scuffed up from years and years of use, to find that Mickey was running late. It wasn’t much of a surprise- the boss makes the time, the employee shows up early, the boss shows up late. It was sort of a running gag, Ian mused, and he wondered if he could get away with showing up late himself (just not as late). But before he could entertain the idea too much, he heard the crunch of foot steps lapping up the rubbly concrete stairs. 

“Morning,” he called when Mickey’s black hair popped out at the landing. 

“Fish,” Mickey greeted coolly. “You bring a piece?” 

“Um, was I ‘spose to?” 

“Was he ‘spose to, he says,” Mickey laughed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, man. You were fucking supposed to. Do you even have one?” 

Ian shrugged a little, a little more than slightly embarrassed, feeling a deep red creek up his neck as it pooled in his cheeks. 

“Another thing I gotta get you, huh? You’re shaping up to be a costly investment”.

“Wouldn’t be investing if you didn’t think I’d be worth it,” Ian found himself answering. It wasn’t a lie - Mickey wouldn’t have dragged him along for as long as he had it he didn’t see something in him. That was for sure. 

“So you better live up,” Mickey retorted, Ian barely having enough time to register the words before a revolver came flying his way. He caught clumsily, with both hands, and then looked up at Mickey, who was clearly amused. “Relax, it ain’t loaded.” Mickey then dropped a duffel bag to the ground - one Ian hadn’t even noticed him carrying. Christ, he was ignorant. How was he ever supposed to become a good criminal?

Once Mickey had pulled various cans and bottles out, and placed them up on one of the window ledges, he walked back to Ian, kicking the empty bag to the side. 

“Here.” He held out his hand, revealing three bullets. “Take ‘em, Fish. Ain’t got all day.” Ian obeyed, picking the bullets up, and loading the revolver - he may not have had his own in a long while, but he was hardly useless around weapons. “Great, aim - try to take down the middle one without knocking the others over.”

“That’s impossible,” Ian mumbled as he brought the weapon up to his line of sight. 

“I assure you it’s not,” Mickey deadpanned. “The fuck is that stance?” 

“Huh?” Ian asked, turning to look at him, bringing the gun down. 

“D’you forget all the shit I told you at the warehouse?”

Yes. Back then, Ian had still been quite terrified of Mickey, whether he had let himself admit it or not. And he had absolutely been angry with him for dragging him into all of his. He couldn’t really remember any specific things that Mickey had taught him that one time they had practiced, and the thought brought him some shame. If there was anything he should be good at by now, it was listening. Remembering. 

“Was kinda scared of you back then, don’t remember much.” Ian knew that admitting such a fact wasn’t a great idea, but he said it with a joking tone, so he hoped that it would smooth things over somewhat in their suddenly chilly and professional relationship. 

“Ain’t afraid anymore?” Mickey quirked a brow, edges of his lips twitching in amusement. Bingo. 

“I dunno, Mickey. Do you want me to be?” Mickey paused, and Ian did too, watching the subtleties of emotion flicker over Mickey’s face. A twitch of his brow. The flicker in his eyes. The scrunch if his mouth. He wished he hadn’t asked- he didn’t know it would be a complicated answer. 

“Probably better if you are, tough guy,” Mickey finally shrugged. 

“And if I’m not?” Another complicated question, apparently. Mickey scratched at both his lips and his eyebrows, a tick that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Ian. And how could it? He did it with a frequency that couldn’t be ignored, and Ian wondered how it came to be.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and fucking shoot already?” Mickey mumbled and looked toward the makeshift targets. 

“Thought you were gonna show me how? My stance is shit, remember?” 

“Everything about you is shit,” Mickey said, shaking his head and reaching for the gun. 

Ian gave it willingly, for fear of an accidental discharge, and Mickey took it swiftly, but carefully, keeping it aimed at the ground. He gave one quick look over at the targets before locking eyes with Ian. He raised the gun out at his side all the while still staring at Ian, and discharged the weapon, the clatter of a perfect hit ringing through the air. Ian flinched at the sound - of course he did. Mickey didn’t - of course he didn’t. 

“Jesus. You want me to aim like that?” Ian asked, mouth dry and nerves heavy in his guts. 

“No. I want you to know that I can hit a target without looking. And without thinking. I want you to rethink your whole, ‘ _should I be scared of Mickey_ ,’ stance.” Mickey walked over to the targets and put them back up, before heading back towards Ian. 

“What if I rethink it and still come up with the same answer?” God, he really needed to shut up, didn’t he? But perhaps that was just it - he wasn’t afraid of Mickey. Knew he wouldn’t have him chained and dropped into the ocean. At least not without him having done something major to deserve it. 

“Just aim and shoot, man,” Mickey shook his head. Ian rolled his eyes and brought the weapon up to his line of sight once again, resting the base in his other hand. Mickey hadn’t done so, of course, but Ian couldn’t shoot like Mickey could. He needed more support; his hand was shaking - not enough to see it, he wasn’t that much of a weakling, but he could feel it. 

Ian fired the revolver - this time flinching slightly less, as his ears were prepared for the sound. Nevertheless, he flinched, and when he opened his eyes, none of the bottles, nor cans had moved a single inch. 

“Good job,” Mickey said, the compliment dripping in sarcasm.

“You know, it’s your bullets I’m wasting. Instead of standing there, telling me how my stance is shit, how about you man up and teach me how to shoot?” Mickey crossed his arms for a minute, tilting his head to the side as if he was thinking it over. Ian had been expecting a punch in the face for talking back to him - if not a physical one, then at the very least a verbal one. Instead, Mickey uncrossed his arms, and walked closer to Ian. 

“Alright,” he said, voice low and rumbly and breathy against Ian’s ear, sending shivers that he fought to keep still up his spine. 

Mickey’s right arm came up and cupped Ian’s right hand, his left circling around to do the same to his left, maneuvering his fingers easily over Ian’s, and positioning them just how he wanted them. 

“Jesus you’re big,” Mickey said, stepping up even closer behind him, and Ian... didn’t hate it. 

“Maybe you’re just small,” he retaliated. 

“Maybe you’re a fuck head, so shut up and pay fucking attention. Your grip is too firm. Look at your hands. They’re turning even whiter- if that’s possible. Ease up some.” 

Ian didn’t think he could un-tense. Not with the way Mickey’s body was lined up with his own, so close that he could smell a faint waft of maple syrup and a post breakfast cigarette coming from his breath. The thought grossed him out, a little, but he was more put off by how _not_ put off he was. 

“There you go. Good. Now for this gun, you gotta aim a little...” Mickey moved Ian’s hands over just a scooch, “...to the right. You’re gonna take a breath, and you’re gonna fire when you exhale, alright. Just breathe and relax. Ready?” 

Ian nodded, though how he was supposed to breathe, he wasn’t sure. He somehow managed though, maybe not afraid of Mickey, but afraid of... disappointing him? He didn’t know, but he pushed through anyway, breathing deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth, lining up and pulling the trigger. 

“That’s how you do it,” Mickey nodded, satisfied when another bottle was knocked to the ground in a deafening crunch. He took a step back from Ian, and Ian hated to admit it, but he missed the closeness nearly immediately. “Reload. Do it again.” Mickey gave him a few more bullets, and Ian reloaded the revolver, bringing it back up. He had to stop and think for a second longer than he should have in order to remember what Mickey had told him. He had been more focused on the feeling of having him so close than he would like to admit. He loosened his grip, and aimed the weapon a smidge to the right. Then he pulled the trigger. 

“That what you were aimin’ at?” Mickey questioned. As they watched the bottle as the end of the line tumble to the ground, clearly not as an effect of Ian hitting it dead-on.

“No,” Ian admitted. Mickey hummed. As Ian turned to look at him, he saw him standing with his hands in his pockets, looking around, as if he was appreciating the view. The view of… various decrepit buildings?

“Think you like closing your eyes too much, Fish,” Mickey let him know, as he stepped closer, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Keep ‘em open for me, alright?”

“You’re the boss,” Ian said, voice surprisingly level and normal considering the speed at which his heart was beating as he felt Mickey bring his hand back to Ian’s, lifting the gun back up. 

He wasn’t too close - not close enough that Ian had any reason to believe his thoughts were shared. He could very well just be helping Ian become a better shot - but he had already done this. He had shown him, so why would he do it again? Because Ian was still a useless shot, of course - that was it. Because Ian couldn’t do anything right without his idiocy getting in the way. 

“Relax, Fish. Knuckles are all white again,” Mickey reminded him, voice surprisingly soft - at least the way his breath felt against Ian’s neck as his chin hovered above his shoulder. Ian forced himself to take a breath, to focus on anything but the way Mickey’s fingers brushed over his own, correcting his grip. “There you go. стріляти.”

“Pull the trigger?” Ian asked. 

“Shoot. стріляти _,"_ Mickey translated. 

“стріляти,” Ian repeated under his breath. 

“Square up those shoulders,” Mickey corrected before Ian couldn’t pull the trigger. He pushed a hand in the center between Ian’s shoulder blades with one hand, and smoothed out his shoulder one by one with the other. “There you go. Keep it tight, but not too tight. Relax. Breathe.” 

“How am I supposed to relax if you want me to be scared of you?” Ian smirked, cocky little shit that he was, but Mickey sent him a dagger of a glare, and Ian got back to business. He put the target in his sight, turned to the right just a smidge, breathed in and back out, squeezed the trigger and kept his eyes open. The bottle that he was aiming at blew away and Ian, well, Ian fucking whooped. Like a kid he yelled at the top of his lungs. Yelled liked he’d just don’t something big. Something real. 

“Take it you actually were aiming for that one,” Mickey smiled, true and genuine and bright. 

“Hell fucking yeah I was! Did you see that, Mick? I fucking did it!” Mickey let him indulge for a moment longer, nodding along with Ian’s over enthusiasm, neither truly joining in or admonishing him for his immaturity. He just... let him be. Let him be happy and... alive. 

But all good things come to an end. 

“Alright, alright. Now do it again. Make sure you ain’t a one trick pony.” 

“Aw, come on Mick- _ey_. Don’t you ever cut loose?” Ian asked over his shoulder. 

“What’re you saying? I don’t razz your berries?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. You’re a wet fucking rag if I’ve ever seen one.” 

“Something you and the kid can agree on, I guess,” Mickey said, trying to sound nonchalant, but there was a hint of... something else in his words. Something Ian very much wanted to understand. “He uh, he’s been asking about you.” 

“Who, Yevy?” 

“Yes, dipshit,” Mickey sighed, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. “Yevgeny. Says he wants to play with you or some shit.” Ian smiled brightly and lowered his weapon, carefully pointing it at the ground. He didn’t know why the thought of Mickey’s little boy liking him made him feel so fucking giddy. But it did. 

“And what about you, Mick. You wanna play with me, too?” He teased, feeling silly and light, and just... better about his relationship with Mickey than he had in a while. Until. Mickey’s face fell and took on a hardened look that was akin to an angry stone, and Ian’s heart dropped through his belly. 

“Fuck you just say to me?” 

“I- what?” He recoiled. “No, shit. No. I didn’t- Mickey I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear,” Ian raised his free hand up in surrender, and fuck, leave it to him to be so thoughtless and fucking insane with his words. 

“You don’t ever say shit like that out in the open, you hear me?” Mickey yelled, face turning a fuming shade of reddish purple, veins popping from his forehead and neck. If Ian didn’t know better, he’d think he was on the verge of a fucking stroke or something, never having seen him look so mad. 

“Mickey, I swear,” he said again. “I really didn’t-”

“Ian. That will get you killed. Do you understand me? You say that to the wrong person and it’s lights out before you even hit the fucking pavement,” he spat viciously, though considerably quieter. 

“Yeah, yeah I get it. I do. I just- I wasn’t thinking...” he tried to placate, not knowing what to do or what to say to make this okay. Once again, he ruined what little he’d been able to build, and he hated himself for it. 

“Just...” Mickey breathed. “Just shoot the fucking targets.”

Ian did so, then Mickey gave him some more pointers - from a distance - and Ian fired once more. Mickey gave him some more bullets, and he fired again. Overall? He wasn’t doing awful, Mickey’s help had done a lot for him, but he surely wasn’t a natural shot yet. That was if he ever would be. 

A part of him felt bad that he was struggling, as if… as if he was disappointing Mickey or something stupid like that. Which was clearly a ridiculous thought. Mickey didn’t care enough about Ian to be disappointed with him. 

After a few hours, Mickey started to pack up, and to Ian’s surprise, he said: 

”Let’s head to the car, man, I’ll drop you off at home.”

“What about the diner?” Ian found himself questioning as they made their way back down the unreliable stone steps. 

“You done enough today, I’ll have someone else cover it.”

Distantly, Ian felt something nagging at the back of his head - a question; one he would never, in a million years be stupid enough to voice: How many ‘ _someone else_ ’s did Mickey have? Was Ian just ‘ _someone else_ ’? Had Mickey been up on this rooftop with someone else yesterday morning? Had they asked the same thing? Had Ian been the ‘ _someone else_ ’ covering the diner? Not only was the array of questions stupid, but they were ones he already had the answers to - most of them, anyway. 

Many. Mickey had many others. He was a boss, Ian was an employee - one of many. He was acting like a child. 

He didn’t say much as they got into the car, for fear of screwing up again, as he had so many times since he had met Mickey - it was what he did, it seemed. It was a repeating pattern - he and Mickey joked, perhaps started to build somewhat of a friendly relationship - then Ian fucked it up. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian broke the silence as they neared the Gallagher house. He knew that Mickey wasn’t one for apologies - giving nor receiving - but Ian wasn’t sure that he would be able to go on if he didn’t clear the air somehow. 

“What?” Mickey mumbled past the cigarette resting in between his lips, smoke escaping with the words. Ian chanced a glance at him, but despite Mickey not taking his eyes off the road, Ian didn’t let himself linger. 

“I talk a lot, and I fuck up, I know that. And I’m gonna get better, Mick - Mickey,” he quickly corrected himself. “Just… don’t mean to offend you is all,” he assured him. “I respect you.” 

Until the words were out of his mouth, Ian hadn’t quite realized how true those words were. Perhaps a few months ago, he would have spewed at the mere idea, but now? There was a lot about Mickey that was worth respecting. His work ethic for one, his brains, the way he cared about his son. 

Mickey sighed as he pulled the car to a stop outside of the Gallagher house. Ian turned to look at him, only to find him already looking back, breathing a last puff of tobacco into his lungs before stubbing the cigarette out, shaking his head. 

“Ain’t that you offended me, man,” he started, and Ian couldn’t help but liken the tone in his voice to a parent going ‘ _I’m not angry with you, I’m disappointed in you._ ’ “I don’t give a shit about whatever you’re into -“ Ian opened his mouth to object, but Mickey silenced him with a weak gesture. “Shut up and listen. You gotta be careful, Fish. Gotta be careful is all.” 

Ian gave him a nod, trying desperately to find something that would diffuse the tension. Mickey looked away from him to reach for another cigarette, and Ian was glad. 

“Fiona’s still bugging me about you coming to dinner.” 

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea, man,” Mickey mumbled, biting at his lips and playing with his hands in his lap. He seemed- off, Ian guessed was the best way to describe it. A little sad, maybe, and Ian thought it was probably because of what he thought he knew about Ian. He’d stuck his neck out for someone who wasn’t a real man- at least not in Mickey’s view. 

“No, no you’re right. That’s okay, Mickey. Don’t, uh, don’t feel bad or-”

“But fuck it. Fiona wants me to come, so...” he shrugged and Ian grinned despite himself. 

“Right. Fiona wants you to come.” 

“So, I’ll come. Can I- can I bring Yevgeny?” He sounded shy, he looked shy, and Ian couldn’t help but think he was probably asking to bring his kid to remind him that he was into women. It wasn’t hard to imagine why he’d want to remind him of that, but whatever, Ian didn’t care. Well, he did but. He could pretend he didn’t. 

“Of course. Please bring him. I’ll finally get some good conversation out of a Milkovich,” Ian laughed light heartedly and punched at Mickey’s arm. 

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a ring and let me know when you want us, and we’ll be there with bells on,” Mickey said dismissively as he started the engine. 

“Hey, Mick, thanks for today. I, uh, had a good time.” 

“Sure, Fish. Anytime.” 

✦✦✦

Later that night, when Ian told Fiona that Mickey had agreed to come to dinner, she got a smile on her face that was larger than he had seen in a while. It was the same smile that she wore when Debbie brought home her new best friend, or when Lip brought home a girl. She clearly thought that Mickey was a good person, more specifically, a good friend to Ian - he couldn’t very well argue, as much time as he had spent with him the last few months. Him telling her that they weren’t friends would just lead to more questions. Questions he didn’t want her to have to know the answers to. 

“He’s bringing his son, too,” Ian added, already a few steps up the staircase. 

“Mickey’s married?” Fiona questioned, nothing but happiness in her voice. “I didn’t know that, why don’t you tell him to bring his lady over, too?” Ian sighed, turning back around on the steps - Fiona liked hosting large dinners; he knew this. Perhaps because having guests forced all of her siblings to come home at the same time. 

“Not married,” Ian shook his head. “And don’t ask him about that,” he continued. “Made that mistake before,” he added, under his breath, not loud enough for the words to reach Fiona’s ears.

“Okay,” she nodded. “I won’t. Think they can come Friday?”

“I’m sure they can, I’ll let him know.”

✦✦✦

Friday came slowly. Each day before it melding into the next. A montage of cooking and booking, with little contact from anyone other than the few sweet old waitresses that the diner employed. They were sweet to him, and he was beginning to see why Mickey was so good to them, but they did little to keep up with his need for socialization. 

He’d gotten off of his breakfast and lunch shift, had just enough time to scrub the grease and stench of chopped onions from his skin when a knock sounded from the front door of the Gallagher house. It was quiet, and if Ian wasn’t mistaken, it sounded distinctly low. So, with an unmatched smile, he opened the door. 

“Hey Mickey! I thought you were bringing my friend Yevy?” He said, with fake confusion at as the boy bounced near his feet. 

“I’m here, Ian!” He shouted and tapped at Ian’s shins. 

“Oh my gosh, didn’t even see you! Come on in. Should we let dad in, too?” Ian asked, smirking over Yevgeny’s head. 

“Yeah,” he replied, turning around and looking up. “He gets sad when he doesn’t get to play with me. So, we should let him come, too.” 

“Yeah, thanks, kid,” Mickey chuckled, ushering Yevgeny in. 

“You got homework you need to do?” Ian teased, taking note of the backpack sling around Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, you’re hilarious. ‘S’the kids toys. Said you would want him to bring them.” 

“And he was right. Thanks for thinking of me, Yevy!”

“Christ,” Ian heard Mickey mumble under his breath, but he couldn’t detect a single hint of heat in the word. 

“Hey, Mickey,” Fiona greeted warmly, exiting the kitchen for a moment. Strands of her curls were hanging into her face, having slipped out of her ponytail while she was working in the kitchen. “So glad you could come,” she said with a quick hug - he returned it, and thanked her for inviting them, while Ian stood to the side, distantly wondering how the man could so easily slip in and out of the charming persona he had built up to get him through.

“Ian told me you had a three year old, why are you bringing a full grown man into my house?” She asked then, Yevgeny’s bubbling laughter appearing at the question. 

“I am three!” 

“You are, huh? But you’re so big and strong.”

“Yeah, I think you could take your dad,” Ian chimed in. 

“Anyone could,” Lip came down the staircase, heading towards Mickey to greet him with a friendly smile. 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Mickey interrupted, as the Gallagher siblings joined his son in his laughter. 

After that, Fiona returned to the kitchen to finish the dinner, and Liam came down from his room, joining Ian and Yevgeny in looking through the toys that he had brought. 

“What’s this?” Ian asked, reaching for a black ball with the number eight printed onto it. 

“That’s a magic eight ball! It can tell the future!” Yevgeny said, voice full of enthusiasm. 

“Oh, yeah?” Ian asked, chancing a look up. He happened to do so at the very same time that Mickey did - he was standing in the kitchen with Lip and Fiona, nursing a beer, and Ian was on the floor of the living room with the kids, but for a second their eyes met, and Mickey rolled his eyes - whether at the scam of a children’s toy, or the kitchen conversation, Ian didn’t know, but he couldn’t help but smile. “How does it work?”

“You just,” Yevgeny started, taking the ball and giving it a good shake. “Ask it a question. And then, and then you turn it back up and it answers you! It’s magic!” 

“Oh, magic? Wow, Yevy. I didn’t know you had magic stuff. Show me. Ask it a question,” Ian prodded, nodding toward the ball in his tiny little hands. 

“Okay! Um...” he thought out loud, brow crinkling just like Mickey’s. “Will dad let me get ice cream later?” He flipped it over and looked at the answer, but didn’t say anything. 

“He’s working on reading,” Mickey called. “Help him out, Fish.” 

Ian peered over and read the answer. “It says, ‘ _My sources say no_ ,’” Ian whispered for only Yevgeny to hear. “But I think we should tell dad that it says, ‘ _yes_.’ What do you think?” Yevgeny nodded enthusiastically, and Ian felt his heart swell at his high pitched, shrieky laughter. 

“It says you gotta buy both me and Yevy an ice cream, Mick,” he yelled over his shoulder, laughing with Yevgeny when Mickey groaned. 

“You pay for your own. I ain’t your keeper.” 

“Sorry, Mick,” Ian fake shrugged. “It’s magic. Better do what it says.” 

“Sounds like you and that oversized pool ball are both freeloaders.” 

“Don’t listen to him, Ian,” Yevgeny assured, patting Ian’s leg comfortingly. “Here, now you ask it something.” 

“Okay,” he said, taking it gently and giving it a shake. “Uh, does Yevy’s dad secretly want me to be his best friend forever?” He laughed as he turned it over, catching Mickey’s exaggerated eye roll. He laughed when he read the answer. 

“' _It is certain_ '. Aw, Mick. All you had to do was say so!”

“All that ball does is lie, man,” Mickey waved them off, and the living room filled with high pitched laughter. 

Soon thereafter, the dinner was on the table - lasagna, because it was the cheapest option to feed so many people. 

“Come here, kid,” Mickey nodded for his son to take the chair next to him, but Yevgeny shook his head. 

“No, I wanna sit in Ian’s lap!” The boy protested. 

“Yev,” Mickey warned him, but Carl ended up taking the chair that he had left for Yevgeny - mostly because Carl usually sat in it, and he didn’t have much of an ear for other people. “I don’t think Ian wants you in-“

“Don’t listen to him, he’s just grumpy,” Ian interrupted, voice strained as he was simultaneously bending over to pick the three year old up, placing him onto his lap. “Of course you can sit with me,” he assured him. 

“See, dad? Yevgeny asked. “Ian likes me!”

Ian then made a show of whispering into Yevgeny’s ear, though keeping his voice loud enough for the rest of the table to hear. 

“You’re a lot more fun than your dad.”

“Fuck off, man,” Mickey shook his head, Ian’s siblings laughing at the exchange as the lasagna was passed down the table, everyone serving themselves a piece, Ian helping Yevgeny. It was a little bit of a hassle, eating with one hand as Ian made sure to keep one of his arms around Yevgeny’s stomach to make sure he didn’t skip from his lap, but the truth was that he didn’t mind. He was used to this - being around kids - it felt natural to him after he had helped raise so many of his younger siblings. 

“So Mickey, what is it exactly that you and Ian do?” Fiona asked after a few minutes of other meaningless chatter. 

Ian swallowed hard, nearly choking on a half chewed hunk of noodle, eyeing Mickey warily. Mickey shot him a look back, fleeting, but Ian knew what it meant: _calm the fuck down_. 

“My family owns a diner. I manage it. Gave Ian a job. Said he wasn’t getting paid much at the ice cream shop,” he said with all of the calculated lying he would ever need. He didn’t break his stride, shoving a forkful of food in his mouth, and chewing enthusiastically, giving Fiona a warm smile around his mouthful. 

“Why couldn’t you just tell me that, Ian?” She laughed. 

“He’s a secretive little shit, isn’t he?” Mickey agreed wholeheartedly, and Ian knew that also had a double meaning. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe my personal life isn’t anyone’s business,” he said a little more harshly than intended. 

“You work with Ms. Dorothy?” Yevgeny broke through the tension, red sauce running down his chin. “I love her. She said that dinosaurs are cool. And she also, she knows that me and dad like waffles. Right, dad?” 

“Right.” 

“What are you doing there?” Lip chimed in. “Scrubbing the toilets like you never seem to do here?” 

“No, asshole. I cook.” 

“You know how to make waffles?” Yevgeny squeaked, eyes bright and shiny as he tipped his head back to look at Ian. 

“I do. And I bet you like ‘em with whipped cream and chocolate chips, huh?” Yevgeny’s mouth fell open, chewed up mush caked in between his tiny teeth and tongue.

“You can put whipped cream on them? Dad, why don’t I ever get whipped cream on them?!” 

“Because you’re already too sugared up as it is. Hyper little freak,” Mickey told him sternly. And then, “thanks a lot, Fish.” 

“Don’t worry, Yev,” Ian mock whispered again. “I’ll make you some with extra whipped cream.” 

“Then you deal with him hopped up on a sugar high, I ain’t takin’ the fall.”

After the lasagna was gone, Yevgeny and Liam ran back into the living room to continue digging through the bag of toys. Meanwhile, thanks to Fiona, the kitchen filled with a scent of strong coffee, accompanied by the spitting sound of the coffee maker. 

“You have a big family, don’t you, Mickey?” She asked, while they were all gathered around the kitchen island, Debbie bringing the milk and the sugar out. 

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey confirmed, and the answer immediately drew Ian’s attention to him. The entire night, he had been easy going, and… polite - Ian hadn’t really expected anything else, because Mickey sure knew how to charm people when he needed to. Although… it hadn’t quite seemed as fake to Ian tonight as it had the other few times when he had just walked in to find Mickey in his kitchen.Now, though - the look on Mickey’s face, it seemed to falter, even for just a second. Ian doubted that anyone else had managed to catch the way the edges of his mouth twitched downwards, nor the way his eyes seemed to flash with something gloomy, voice dancing on the edge of monotone. “Big family,” he confirmed. “Mind if I go out and grab a smoke?” 

Fiona waved him off, assuring him that it was okay.

“I’m gonna grab one too,” Ian decided, barely giving the backdoor enough time to shut before he opened it, joining Mickey in the dark; a small lightbulb sat on the facade, pouring warm light onto the small porch.

“Last one, man, sorry,” Mickey mumbled, lighting the cigarette in between his lips. Ian gave him enough time to breathe in before he reached over and stole it, placing it in between his own. Mickey flailed around, looking, no pun intended, like a fish out of water, glaring daggers into Ian’s uncaring eyes. He smirked around the butt of it, letting the smoke sizzle out through his nostrils, before relenting and handing it back. “You’re a dick,” Mickey mumbled, sucking away as the cherry turned a vibrant orange. 

“Eh, been called worse by better people,” he smiled softly as Mickey flipped him off. “You having an okay time?” 

“Sure. Kid’s happy.” 

“I’m asking about you, though, Mick. Are you having a good time?” Mickey was quiet for a long moment, staring around the back yard and taking in lungfuls of smokey tobacco before he finally turned back to Ian, a soft upturn on his lips. 

“I-”

“Coffee’s done,” Lip butted in, the clatter of the backdoor banging open making Ian jump. As Ian followed Mickey inside, he couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed at the interruption. 

They had coffee, Yevgeny once again elbowed his way up into Ian’s lap, despite the warning from Mickey that he should have asked first. Ian assured him that he was welcome any time, and if it was possible for someone to give a middle finger using just their eyes, that was what Mickey gave Ian. 

Ian wasn’t sure how long they all sat there, in the warm light of the kitchen, talking. Mostly it was Debbie, Carl and Lip sharing stories that had the entire table laughing. Eventually, the coffee was no longer being poured, Liam was yawning, and Ian could feel Yevgeny growing heavy in his lap, leaning back against his chest, breathing evening out.

“Should probably get the kid to bed,” Mickey nodded towards the sleeping child, as the clock on the wall ticked closer to midnight. 

He stood up, Fiona and Lip doing so as well, while thanking him for coming. They stayed in the kitchen, the three remaining Gallagher siblings disappearing somewhere around the house, while Ian carried the sleeping child through the house, Mickey collecting his toys as they went. 

“Thanks for, uh,” Mickey said, waving around vaguely when the front door closed behind them, leaving them alone on the front porch. “Keeping the kid entertained.” 

“Wasn’t a problem. He’s a good one,” Ian smiled warmly, hugging Yevgeny’s sleeping form tighter against himself.

“Yeah, well. He was good tonight, but don’t let his nice guy act fool you. He might be cute, but he’s a terror.” 

“Hmm,” Ian let out mindlessly. “Must get that from his dad.” 

Ian’s eyes grew wide, again realizing that he let his loose tongue do the talking without his brain catching up. He looked to Mickey, nervous and feeling like his dinner might come up all over the sleeping body in his arms. Mickey, however, for once didn’t seem to be offended. He didn’t seem... anything. He stood still, blank, maybe about to say something, maybe not, when Yevgeny stirred awake. 

“Daddy?” He asked, sleepily rubbing at his eyes. 

“Yeah, man. We’re gonna go home now, alright? Get you into your bed.” 

“I don’t want to. Wanna stay with Ian,” he mumbled, burrowing his face into Ian’s neck. 

“Come on. We’ll see him again soon," Mickey denied, reaching out to take him into his own arms and patting his back. “Tell Ian bye.” 

“Bye, Ian,” Yevgeny yawned. “I love you.” 

“Bye, Yevy. Love you, too.” Ian smiled warmly, melting at the sleepy little boy’s tired eyes and sweet words. Mickey rolled his eyes, but looked to Ian without malice, without anything other than... gratitude? Ian didn’t know, but he’d take it anyway. 

“You tell him bye and you love him, too,” Yevgeny directed, lazily hitting at Mickey’s chest. 

“See ya ‘round, Fish. Tell your sister thanks.”

“That’s not bye and love,” Yevgeny complained through a half-asleep mumble, but thankfully, he was asleep within seconds, so Mickey was off the hook. It was on Ian’s tongue to tease him - ‘ _You don’t love me?_ ’ but thankfully, he thought better of it. 

“Told you he’s a little terror,” Mickey rolled his eyes, but Ian just let a chuckle slip past his lips. 

“He’s cute. That part I’m sure he gets from his mom, though,” he clarified his earlier mistake, but making sure to keep a teasing tone to his voice. Mickey unwrapped one of his arms from Yevgeny to give Ian his middle finger before he wrapped it back around his little body. 

“Honestly fuck you for bein’ nice to him at all, now all I’m gonna hear is ' _Ian this_ ' and ' _Ian that_ '.” 

“Yeah, well he’s a smart kid,” Ian shrugged, dragging another eye roll out of Mickey. “You have a good time, though?” Ian tried again, hoping that Lip wouldn’t come busting through the door this time. 

“Ain’t bad,” Mickey surprised Ian by admitting. “Less stiff than Aleks’ dinners, that’s for sure.” For some reason, it brought a warmth to Ian’s stomach to know that he hadn’t imagined Mickey’s false smiles at the previous dinner. “Gotta get home, man,” Mickey said, then, bouncing Yevgeny gently in order to drag Ian’s attention to the sleeping child. “Catch you around.” Ian gave him a nod as Mickey made his way down the steps.

If Ian stayed on that porch until Mickey's car had disappeared down the street, then that was nobody's business but his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's missed it, [anothergallavichlove](https://anothergallavichlove.tumblr.com/) is on tumblr - whatsastory doesn't really have an active blog on there, but we both really appreciate comments here on ao3, it's always very motivating and encouraging!


	13. thirteen

“Ian,” he heard as he felt the gentle pull of a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Milkovich called from downstairs. He said he needs to see you urgently.” Dorothy, whom he’d really come to love, nodded her head toward the basement stairs. Her dedication to her job (though Mickey assured him that she was paid far better than she would be elsewhere), her friendly demeanor, her warm eyes. She was beyond kind, always, and he’d be hard pressed to find someone who would, nor could speak ill of her. 

“Thank you,” he smiled back at her, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek as had become custom, but his stomach tangled up in knots. He’d never been called down there- at least not without Mickey, and the thought horrified him. He crept down quickly but carefully, trying his best to remain invisible. He remembered, last minute, that he still had a hairnet on and whipped it off, shoving it deep in his pocket before making his way toward the opened office door. He knocked anyway, waiting to be allowed in. 

“Ian. Come, come,” Aleksandr waved him in and gestured toward the chairs in front of him. Ian was more than relived to find Mickey already there, sat with his back to him and cigarette smoke dancing around his silhouette. 

“Sir,” Ian nodded back respectfully, taking the empty seat and giving Mickey a quick nod. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to see him- nearly two weeks had gone by without a word, and Ian... missed him? He wasn’t sure, but he was glad to see him at any rate. 

“I have a job for you.” Aleksandr explained with ease, leaning back in his large chair. Ian’s lips parted - barely - to ask, but since Aleksandr was of course about to elaborate, he kept from it. He needed to learn how to be patient. It was not one of his strengths. “I have some guys down in New Mexico moving some product in, I told Mikhailo I need him to drive to the Colorado border and meet up with ‘em, make sure they deliver. It’s too far of a drive for him to go by himself and make it back without wasting too much time. I need you to go with him.”

“Yes, sir. I can do that,” Ian gave him a nod, without hesitation. Partly because he was not allowed to say no to Aleksandr, but also because it sounded like a fairly easy assignment. Considering the things he had been asked to do, at least. 

“Very well. You can continue working now. I will go over some more information with Mikhailo, and he can let you know when you’ll be leaving.”

“Yes, sir,” Ian repeated, figuring that it was a better choice to say those two words too often rather than too rarely. Giving Mickey another nod, he rose from his chair as smoothly as he could and headed back upstairs where he felt that he could breathe again. Aleksandr was nice enough, Ian supposed, ions ahead of Terry, anyway, but something about him still made Ian’s skin crawl. It probably was largely due to the fact that he could snap his fingers and have Ian killed in an instant. It didn’t much matter, though. Those were the rules he had pledged his life for, and the only real thing he could do about it was keep his head down and ask how high when they said jump, and thank them for their time. The phrase made its way through his head more than a few times since Mickey had first said it, but it rang true none the less. Thankfully, he seemed to be back in Mickey’s good graces for the time being, and he intended to keep it that way- pushing the mantra to the back of his mind. 

He worked for only a short while after that, lending out only fifty dollars and marking it in the books and cooking a meal or two before Mickey stepped through the back door and called for someone to relieve Ian. He nodded his head toward the door that lead out back, usually only used by the smokers and those in charge of taking out the trash. 

“Gonna be leaving tonight,” he said, acting as if a few days long trip wasn’t a big deal, and a few hours notice was perfectly reasonable. 

“What time tonight? My shift doesn’t end until eight, and-”

“What, you think I can’t end your shift whenever I want?” Mickey laughed, a little bit cockily. 

“Ah, right,” Ian mumbled, patting his pockets for a pack of Luckies. “Perks of being the boss.” 

“Ay, now you’re getting it, Fish.” 

“What time tonight?” Ian asked again, breathing a cloud of smoke in Mickey’s face, and faking a groan when Mickey took it from his fingers and took a drag of his own. 

“Pick you up at seven. Go on and head home. Take a nap or some shit. Not gonna make me take the trip while you nap all cozy in the passenger’s seat.”

Mickey handed the cigarette back to Ian, before heading back inside. Ian finished it, and then he followed Mickey’s order, going home, immediately collapsing onto his bed. 

✦✦✦

By the time he woke up, the watch around his wrist told him it was nearly ten, and an inviting scent of whatever Fiona was cooking for dinner was wafting through the house. Sadly, he didn’t have much time until Mickey would be banging down the door, and he still had to do a little bit of packing - even with minimal stops, and sleeping only while the other was driving, the trip would take at least a couple days. So he got some fresh underwear, toothbrush and toothpaste; for a minute, he wondered whether he needed to wear the whole get-up with the suspenders and the pleated slacks, but when he thought about it, he realized that that was how he was comfortable now, anyway. He was used to it. He put an extra shirt into his bag just in case, though.

“Hey, are you leavin’?” Fiona asked when she saw him coming down the staircase. Ian gave her a nod.

“Gonna be gone for a couple days, Fi. I’ll be back soon.”

“Oh okay, well have fun. You staying at a friend’s?” They both knew what she meant by friend, but it was something they didn’t really talk about. He had never… confirmed anything, but it was less so because he was scared of her reaction and more so because he just felt as if he didn’t need to. They knew it; didn’t need to speak it. 

“Mickey and I are taking a road trip - it’s work,” he explained.

“Give him my best,” Fiona said, getting onto her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“I will,” he assured her before heading out through the back door, rounding the corner just as Mickey’s red Chevrolet pulled up next to the sidewalk. 

“All good?” Mickey asked as Ian got into the passenger seat, throwing the half-empty duffel bag into the back. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth - because of course he did - and he was offering Ian the pack of lucky strikes. 

“Yeah,” Ian assured him, taking the pack and the lighter. 

"Got a long trip ahead of us," Ian mused, stretching out as well as he could; being tall didn’t come with only perks. “Gonna be able to be in a tight space with me without killing me for this long?” 

“Mmm, depends on how fucking annoying you are, doesn’t it?” Mickey didn’t face him head on, but Ian could see the crinkly laugh lines around his eyes anyway. 

“Well, I just want you to know that I’m a car singer. A whole one man concert. So, y’know. Prepare yourself to be amazed,” Ian sing-sang and reached for the radio. 

“Touch my radio, you’re gonna be one fin down, Fish.” 

“It’s oh- _fish_ -al, you’ve got too many fish puns,” Ian laughed, and then smacked at Mickey’s arm when he shook his head. “Oh come on! That was a good one and you know it!” Finally, Mickey smirked.

“Yeah, well, don’t have to be a brain surgeon to come up with ‘em.” Ian laughed- harder than he had in a long while, and laughed even harder when Mickey let out an involuntary snort. He felt feather light and... fuck, happy. He felt happy. Sitting next to Mickey for the next couple of days... he was glad. He was excited. 

Eventually, as they always do, the laughter and the conversation calmed down, a comfortable quiet creeping over them, a bluesy song thanks to The Penguins playing softly in the background as Chicago grew smaller and smaller in the rear view. 

✦✦✦

“Let’s play a game,” Ian suggested after nearly an hour of silence, growing more and more bored by the second. 

“Okay. Silent game. And go,” Mickey tittered, clearly feeling proud of himself. 

“Or, and hear me out here, we could not. Let’s play... I dunno. Twenty questions?”

“I don’t wanna know enough about you to ask twenty fucking questions, man,” Mickey sighed, rolling his head around his shoulders. 

“Fine, then I’ll ask you twenty.” 

“Fuck. You never fucking shut up, do you?” 

“Nope,” Ian smiled in all of his twenty three year old immaturity. 

“Fine. Ask away. Jesus.”

“Okay... uh,” Ian looked around the car as if that would help him ask, and when his eyes landed on Mickey’s pack of cigarettes on the dash, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “When’d you start smoking?” Mickey chuckled and quirked a brow.

“Hard hitting journalism, there. Um, ten? Eleven? You?” 

“Probably around the same time, actually. Though I didn’t start smoking as much as I do now ‘til I met you. Some may say you’re a bad influence.” Mickey scoffed.

“Yeah. Some may say.” 

“Alright. Next question- that counted as your first one too, by the way. Ah, how’d you meet Yevy’s mom?” Mickey cleared his throat, rough and gravely, and fixed his eyes hard at the road. Ian expected him to lash out at the intrusion, to shut him out and keep quiet, and he started to agonize over why, why, why he’d even ask it. But then Mickey spoke. 

“She’s, uh. In the family. Not- not my family. But y’know. Her family is a thing, too.” Ian nodded like what he said meant anything, but he didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to ruin what little camaraderie they had. 

“Okay. You get to ask one now,” he told Mickey, who looked a little nervous- eyes darting around the road, tongue punching out of his lips to flick over them. 

“You- do you have a girl?” Ian breathed out hard. Mickey- well, he knew... didn’t he? Surely he did. He said he didn’t care... but... maybe he didn’t mean what Ian thought he meant? 

“No. I don’t have a girl,” he said, thinking it was the safest answer.

“Why not?” Ian could feel his heart making its way up his throat, but then he looked to Mickey, and could see the creases around the skin of his eyes, and somehow it calmed him down completely. 

“You’re a dick,” Ian muttered. “And it’s not your turn. Her being in another family - was that the reason you didn’t end up working out? Like a Romeo and Juliet situation?” Ian knew that it was risky to keep going down his road - pushing and probing for information that Mickey may very well want to keep to himself. But he seemed to be in a decent mood today, and if he said that it was too personal, Ian would respect that. And anyway - the day Mickey would answer a question that he didn't want to answer would be the day that hell froze over, so Ian wasn't too worried about it. 

“Christ.” Ian heard the low mumble, and was about to ask another question in order to let Mickey off the hook, but before he could, Mickey answered. “Nah, man. Only reason we lasted as long as we did was ‘cause our families wanted us to.” 

About twenty seconds of silence passed before Ian realized that Mickey had finished speaking. As curious as he was; as much as he would like to know more about the entire dynamic, he figured that it was in his best interest to shut his mouth when Mickey was indicating that he was tired of seeing the bubbles escaping out of it. 

“Your turn,” Ian passed the baton. 

Mickey asked him what his favorite food was, and Ian had a feeling that he was humoring him by playing along, so that he wouldn’t become even more annoying - although he didn’t look completely miserable, screwing his face up in disgust when Ian told him that one of their most common meals growing up had been French onion soup. It was cheap, and honestly quite good. Mickey didn’t believe him. 

Eventually, the conversation faded naturally, and Ian didn’t mind. Not at all, in fact - he was content, leaning his head back against the headrest, staring out the windshield as Bill Haley’s _Real Rock Drive_ played quietly from the radio. 

“You like this shit?” Ian hadn’t realized that he had been drumming his fingers against his knees until Mickey spoke up. 

“You don’t?” 

“Nah, man. Too new for me.” 

“Oh yeah. I forget you’re an old man who doesn’t like to have fun,” Ian shook his head as if he truly believed himself to be stupid.

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey said, but he wasn’t fooling Ian. He was having fun. 

“So what kind of music is good enough for you?” Ian asked. “You have a shelf of records,” he recalled from his memory of the living room he had entered only a few times. “Gotta be something.”

“A lot of Duke Ellington, I guess,” Mickey replied, shrugging. “Louis Armstrong. Charles Trenet has some good music. Not all of it, but…” he trailed off, with another shrug. Ian could have made fun of him again, but something about his demeanor stopped him. As if sharing the kind of music that he liked was truly something personal to him. Ian didn’t understand that, but he wasn’t about to ruin it.

“I’ve heard of most of those but I’m not sure I’d recognize any of the music,” Ian leaned back against the seat again. 

“Figures, if you listen to that garbage,” Mickey grunted, nodding towards the radio; Ian could see the edges of his lips twitch in amusement.

“That’s so rude.”

“You expectin’ me to be polite, you don’t know me, Fish.” Ian didn’t say anything to that, instead he reached for the pack of Lucky Strikes, lighting a cigarette up, breathing in the tobacco before handing it over to Mickey, who took it without hesitation. 

✦✦✦

Slowly but surely, the clock ticked closer to the morning hours. Around six am, Mickey pulled over, and Ian took over the driver’s seat. He had only been driving for about half an hour before he frowned, realizing that the daylight wasn’t nearly as bright as it should have been. 

“Mick, the sky doesn’t look so good.”

“What?” Mickey asked groggily, leaning forward in his seat to peer up at the grey crested sky. He frowned as he took it in, a fleeting look, before leaning back with a shrug. “Think you can’t handle a little rain? I thought you’d love the water, Fish,” he tutted with disappointment. 

“You just get funnier and funnier with every passing word, Mikhailo. A regular Lucille Ball.” 

“Ay. Only one of us in this car has anything in common with her, and it ain’t me, Red.” 

“You’re right. We’re a superior race; the redheads. You’re not good enough to join the club anyhow,” Ian sniffed, turning his nose up. 

“Whatever makes you sleep better.” The pitter patter of little raindrops spitting onto the windshield made themselves known, and Ian flicked on the wipers. It wasn’t so bad, he thought. Wasn’t a huge deal; he could manage. Until the sky opened itself up and a downpour washed his visibility right down the drain. 

“Mickey, I really can’t see,” he said through gritted teeth and squinted eyes, leaning forward and slowing the car down simultaneously. 

“A'ight, well... pull over for a minute. It’ll pass.” Ian nodded and guided the car across the rumble strips and to the side of the road and put it in park. The sound was near deafening- clanking and clicking away at the metal roof. 

“Surprised you brought this car,” Ian thought out loud, running his hands over the steering wheel. 

“It’s my car...?” 

“Yeah, but you’ve got access to others. Just surprised you’re letting me drive it, is all.” 

“You ain’t that bad a driver,” Mickey shrugged. “‘sides, I’d hope you’re too scared of me to do something to fuck it up.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ian agreed in a mocking tone. “You’re right, I’m terrified of you. You’re so big and tall, it’s not at all like being lectured by a children's cereal mascot.” He raised his chin slightly, squinting as he watched Mickey fight a smile of his own. 

“Better a children’s cereal mascot than Raggedy Ann,” he shot back, expressive eyebrows raising a smidge. 

“That’s so original, you’re so funny - can you insult me without referencing fish or my hair?” Ian asked, and Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“You’re shaped like a walking green bean.” At that, Ian hummed, shaking his head. 

“Nah, I got muscles.” 

“Oh tough guy’s got muscles, that right?” Mickey’s eyebrows climbed further up his head, his mouth pulled into the largest grin that Ian had ever seen on his face; he couldn’t imagine his own expression reading much differently. Ian opened his mouth for a comeback, but he was cut off by the feeling of the car rocking beneath them - not an insane amount, not enough to be afraid of a hurricane coming along, but surely enough for them to look at each other, as the rain did nothing but pick up it’s pace against the windows.

“Pull over for a minute, it’ll pass,” Ian repeated Mickey’s words in a mocking tone. 

“How the fuck was I supposed to know we were driving into a storm, Fish, huh? I ain’t a psychic.”

“Glad you aren’t. Don’t want you to be able to see when one day I inevitably attack your ass. Er, attack _you_.” 

“Man you just can’t help but put your giant fucking foot in your mouth on a daily basis, can you? Jesus Christ,” Mickey laughed as Ian’s lips formed a tight, white line. 

“Shut up. What are we gonna do about this fucking flood? Don’t think we enough time to build an ark.” 

“Just, uh,” Mickey stammered, looking around and trying to keep his aura of ‘boss,’ firmly in tact. “Limp it along ‘til we find a hotel or some shit.” 

“Are we- are we gonna get in trouble? Y’know, for being late.”

“I will. But it’ll be my job to punish you. So...” he shrugged. 

“Mickey... are they... gonna hit you again?” He bit his lip as he put the car back in drive and checked his mirrors before pulling slowly back into the road. 

“I don’t know. Probably not. Doesn’t matter either way.” 

“Yes it does!” Ian yelled before he caught himself. “It matters. I... don’t wanna see you like that again.” 

“Ian. It’s fine. Told you that already. Not the first time it’s happened and I promise it won’t be the last. Why do you care anyway?” It was on the top of Ian’s tongue to say ‘ _because I care about you_ ,’ ‘ _because you’re important to me_ ,’ or something else equally bad. But he didn’t. For once, he didn’t blurt out the first thing that came to mind and instead settled on, 

“...Yevy shouldn’t see you like that.” 

“Oh,” Mickey smirked. “Yevgeny. Right. Wouldn’t want Yevgeny to be upset.” 

“No, we wouldn’t,” Ian agreed. “Because I care about him. And he’s important.” There, he thought. Close enough. As Ian continued crawling along the road, the wipers frantically clearing the view, he heard Mickey hum in his throat. 

“Kid’s not all that,” he mumbled, and without even looking at him, Ian could tell they weren’t talking about Yevgeny. “Better people to care about, man.” He didn’t sound sad, or anything, but the words still caused Ian’s face to fall for a second before he caught himself. 

“You might be my boss, but you can’t tell me who to care about, I care about whoever I want,” Ian shrugged. “There’s a motel,” he said then, nodding to the sign pointing to the exit. 

“Guess we ain’t got much of a choice, take it,” Mickey agreed, and Ian did so, eventually pulling up to a two story building, painted a dusty blue color, decorated with a half-broken neon sign. A sign they should probably thank, because by now the storm had picked up to the point where the sky was a dark grey, the rain pouring down like the sky was pouring full buckets, and the thunder rolled in the distance. It wasn’t easy to see much. “I’ll head in and get a key, stay here,” Mickey instructed Ian, who didn’t get a chance to object before he was out, heading across the parking lot, surely soaked within seconds. 

Ian watched him for a minute, but then he caught himself thinking things that he absolutely should not be thinking, so he turned his attention towards the trees. Within a couple minutes, Ian spotted Mickey walking back out of the main entrance, and he grabbed the car keys, locking the vehicle before sprinting across the parking lot, both of them jogging up the cement steps, until Mickey stopped in front of room 206.

“Fucking soaked, man,” Mickey grumbled, kicking his shoes off just inside of the door. 

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, though he took much more care of his expensive things- things he couldn’t have afforded in his own. “How much do I owe you for my half of the room?” 

“Don’t worry about it. Business expense,” Mickey waved him off and collapsed on one of the two beds; separated by an end table with a single lamp on it. The room smelled heavily of smoke and... body odor, musty and high and gross. There was a novelty to it, though. Ian had never stayed in a hotel- or a motel for that matter, and it was... neat. 

“This a pay by the hour kinda place?” He asked, smirking down at Mickey and nodding to a questionable stain on the comforter. 

“It’s a shut up and don’t pay too close attention to your surroundings kinda place. Get some shut eye.”

“But we’re all wet,” Ian protested, taking note of the prominent view of his wife beater coming through his wet-white button up. 

“So?” Mickey yawned. 

“So I can’t sleep if I’m wet. I didn’t bring fucking pajamas, Mickey.” 

“Then stay awake. Fuck do I care? But I’m going to sleep. So you need to keep your trap shut.” 

Ian looked around again, taking note of a single chair near the corner- as good of a place as any to lay his clothes out and hope that they dried out. 

“Well, I’m taking my clothes off. I’m not laying around in a puddle.” 

“No you’re fucking not,” Mickey snapped, sitting up straight in his bed, glaring heatedly at Ian. 

“You can try and stop me,” Ian laughed, already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. “But then you’d just be wrestling a shirtless guy. Says more about you than it does me, I think.” Mickey sneered, and Ian smiled bigger, pulling the long sleeved from his arms before he reaching behind himself to pull his undershirt up and over his head. 

“Ian, I’m serious,” Mickey said, voice in a harsh and raspy mumble. Ian thought it was strange- Mickey sounded almost like he was trying not to cry- but just as quickly as it came, the real Mickey was back, looking angry as he flopped to his other side, facing away from Ian. “Whatever, do what you want.” 

“Was planning on it, but thanks for the go ahead,” Ian spat, unzipping his trousers and pulling them off of his feet. 

“You better fucking keep your underwear on,” Mickey demanded. 

“Who said I even have any on?” Mickey let out a grunt that had to be of annoyance, and Ian bit the inside of his cheek in order to keep from laughing loudly as he gathered up the pile of wet clothes - excluding the underwear that he was of course wearing - and walked over to the chair in the corner. 

“Fuck you doing?” Mickey grumbled when Ian walked into his field of vision - the chair unfortunately placed in between his bed and the wall. 

“Drying my clothes like an adult instead of going to sleep soaked like a child,” Ian stated matter-of-factly. Mickey’s throat made another unimpressed noise as he flipped over once again. Once Ian had finished hanging his clothes, he suddenly realized that he had a bag of dry and clean underwear in the car, and he sighed. 

“What?” Mickey mumbled, still turned away from him. 

“Nothing, hold on. I’ll be right back.” With that, Ian put the soaked items of clothing back into his body - struggling to do so as they stuck to his skin. He put his shoes back on, and grabbed the car keys, making his way out into the pouring rain once again, walking across the parking lot in wind strong enough that he could feel it fighting him. He managed to get the bag out without incident, and he locked the car back up, sprinting across the parking lot for the second time, this time, possibly even more relieved to feel the warmth of the motel room around him. 

“You on a suicide mission?” Mickey questioned, as they felt the motel building wave with the wind. 

“Dry underwear,” Ian explained, holding up the bag. “Forgot.” 

“You better change in the bathroom,” Mickey told him. 

“You can relax, Mick,” Ian raised his eyebrows as he started the walk towards the bathroom to do just that. “No one would ever mistake you for being into…” Ian trailed off, realizing that they had never actually said anything out loud. Perhaps that was what kept Mickey okay with it all - not having to acknowledge it. 

“Sausage?” Mickey saved him. Ian rolled his eyes, and closed the bathroom door. Quickly, he got rid of the wet clothes once again, including his underwear, before pulling a dry pair on. Before zipping the bag back up, he looked down at the pairs remaining, and without overthinking it, he grabbed a second pair, before exiting. 

“Put these on,” Ian threw the pair onto Mickey’s bed, as he started hanging the wet clothes over the chair once again. 

“What the fuck, Fish?” Mickey immediately sat up.

“Relax, they’re clean. You’re gonna get sick sleeping like that. Think I got a shirt too if you want. I won’t even look at you.” It was true - regardless of Ian’s admittedly complicated - and very secret feelings towards Mickey - this was about nothing other than him caring about him as a person, as a friend, and wanting him to be comfortable. 

“I’m fine, fuck.” 

“Okay. You’re fine,” Ian mocked. “And when you die from pneumonia, I’ll tell Yev that I’m his new dad. He’d probably like that better anyway.” 

“Watch it,” Mickey warned, voice low and threatening. 

“You fucking watch it. Not fucking scared of you, Mickey. Plus, you look like a wet rat. Change your clothes, you child.” 

“You keep telling me that you’re not afraid of me,” Mickey rasped. “One day I’m gonna have to give you something to be afraid of.” Ian stared at him for a long moment. The faint scar in his cheek. The bruises on his knuckles. Black hair starting to dry, smattered across his forehead. Blue eyes boring holes into his own. He was, in a word, beautiful, and Ian hated himself for conjuring it up so easily. For letting himself even think about it. For letting himself _feel_ it. 

“I don’t doubt that,” was all Ian could say, quietly moving to get into his own bed. It didn’t take him long to drift off, despite the lumpy mattress and scratchy blanket, but as he fell deeper and deeper into sleep, he heard the shuffling of wet clothes and low, whispered curses.

✦✦✦

Ian was awoken by a loud roll of thunder, and a bright flash of lightning. He wasn’t sure what the time was, but it seemed light enough outside that the daylight had probably hadn’t slipped away just yet. Ian groaned at the interruption, still tired as he turned around to face away from the window, intent on getting a few more hours of sleep. Judging by the rain slamming against the window, they weren’t going to make it back onto the road any time soon, anyway. 

Ian opened his eyes for a blink, just getting comfortable as he let them close just as quickly. Something caused him to open them back up, though. 

“Why are you awake?” Ian mumbled, one eye still closed, the other blurrily taking in the image of Mickey sitting on his bed in the dark. The time couldn’t be more than two or three pm, but considering the fact that they had been driving all night, they should both be exhausted. 

“Power’s out,” he mumbled. To most people, he would seem relaxed - he was leaning back against the headboard, arms crossed over his stomach. Ian noted that he had given in and out on Ian’s boxers and shirt, but it didn’t seem as if now was the right moment to comment on it - because to Ian, he didn’t seem comfortable. He seemed… tense.

“So?” Ian struggled to fight a yawn as he pushed himself to sit up. “You afraid of the dark?” He teased, and Mickey threw a couple curse words his way. It wasn’t even dark outside - although thanks to the angry clouds, and mentioned lack of indoor lighting, it wasn’t bright, either. 

“Ain’t afraid of the dark, asshole… just ain’t a huge fan of storms, s’all.”

“Oh.” Ian sat up against his own headboard, lulled by the rhythmic tap, tap, tapping of rain against the glass of the window. Ian could remember loving storms - always. As a kid, jumping out in the puddles or huddled under blankets with Lip, watching the power lines swing and sway with the ferocity of the wind. The way the thunder pounded and shook into his bones. But he could see, he guessed, how someone may interpret it a little differently. How someone could see destruction where Ian only saw violet flashes of beauty and raw power. “So... tell me, uh about... tell me about what you and Yev do when you’re home alone. What’s his favorite thing to eat?” He knew it was weak, a poor excuse to start a conversation, but he tended to always talk about Yevgeny when he wanted to get the motor in Mickey’s mouth running- the only thing he would ever open up about. 

“Fuck you mean? I don’t know. We play? And you already know the kid’s crazy about wah-,” he jumped at a clap of thunder, but shook it away quickly. “-ffles.” 

“Yeah,” Ian nodded, bouncing his head around. “But what do you play? What else does he like? I’m sure you don’t feed him waffles everyday. You said he’s a sugar monster.” 

“Fuck, man,” Mickey muttered, running his hands down his face. “He’s got these little army men he likes to play with. They- I don’t know, shoot each other, I guess. Kid’s psychotic,” Mickey chuckled. “And he likes grilled cheese, too.” 

“Army men? Yeah, I used to play with them, too. My brothers and I used to set up these elaborate battle fields in our backyard. They would just-,” he laughed, “annihilate each other.” 

“Better than me and my brothers. We used to wage war against each other. And well, I’m the youngest boy, so...” Ian frowned, thinking of Mickey being ganged up on. He figured he’d probably been having that problem for most of his life, and he hated it. 

“You ever... you ever have someone on your side, Mick?” Mickey say quietly for a long tense moment. Ian only felt brave enough to sneak one quick look out of the corner of his eye- just long enough to see Mickey picking at his hands and worrying his lip between his teeth. 

“Aleks is, I guess,” he finally said, just above a whisper. Ian nodded. He could see it- sort of. Aleks seemed to give Mickey more of a chance than his worthless father ever did. Ian wasn't the biggest fan of Aleks, for obvious reasons, but he found himself a lot more open to him than to Terry; perhaps a part of that was because of the different way that he had noticed Mickey reacting to them both. Terry made him tense. Aleksandr calmed him. In comparison, at least. 

“Me too,” Ian told him sincerely. He meant it with every bone in his body. Every hair on his head. Every beat in his heart. He meant it. 

“Yeah?” Shaky. Mickey’s voice wavered as he asked it, and Ian wanted nothing more than to cross the small space separating them and just- give him something. Give him his word, or a hug, or even a fucking handshake. Anything. Everything. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed instead. Mickey looked at him, and Ian could see a flash of something in his eye, something he couldn’t quite place. Then he let out a chuckle, using his thumb to scratch at the edge of his eyebrow. Ian could tell that the chuckle was meant to sound as if he was amused, but Ian didn’t quite buy it. 

“Fuck, guess you don’t have a choice, huh?” Mickey asked with a smile on his face - a smile, once again, that Ian didn’t buy. 

“Sure I do,” he stated, voice sincere; he refused to laugh this off. Mickey was… fuck, Mickey was good. Bad, too, in so many ways, but - _good_. He deserved to have people on his side. People who believed in him, people he could trust. For real. No matter what. “‘s got nothing to do with the oath, or any of that shit,” Ian heard himself admit before the words had passed through his brain. Ian then moved down to the floor separating their beds from each other, and he leaned back against the side of his own, looking up at where Mickey was still sitting, unreadable expression on his face. “I’m on your side. You can - you can curse me out, or threaten me, or try to get me to fear you, but you’re stuck with me.”

Ian was well aware of the fact that the words that he was letting spill out of his mouth were ones he shouldn’t be saying out loud. Mostly because Mickey didn’t seem like the kind of person who appreciated this - words, affirmations. Though perhaps it was the pouring rain; perhaps it was the rolling thunder, or the grey dimness of the motel room - perhaps it was Mickey. Either way, Ian couldn’t stop himself. He had to let Mickey know how much he cared. 

Not even in a way that would make him uncomfortable if he knew - the way Ian cared about Mickey went beyond secret thoughts of touches of lips on skin. The way Ian cared about Mickey brought urges to clean his wounds, and make sure that the bleeding had stopped, not just on the outside of his body, but on the inside as well. Ian wanted to talk to Mickey for hours; Ian wanted to listen to him for longer than that. The way Ian cared about Mickey was deep, vast, and endless. Like the universe. Just like the universe, he had no idea where it would lead. 

“That so?” Mickey questioned. 

“You ever known me to be a liar?” He asked, wrinkling up his forehead in challenge. 

“Y’know what, Fish?” Mickey asked, sliding onto the sticky carpet as well, back against his own bed, just to Ian’s left. He seemed careful not to touch Ian- even going so far as to fold his legs up and tie his hands around his hands around his knees. “I think you’ve got a bad habit of saying too much. Especially to me. But... I get the feeling you say exactly what you mean.” 

“I do,” Ian nodded in agreement. “So believe me when I say, I’m your guy. You can count on me. And I’ll try,” he chuckled, “not to fuck it up too bad.” 

“Gonna take a lot for you not to fuck it up. Clumsy fucking giraffe legs you got.” A spark of lightning crackled away outside, and this time, when a roaring roll of thunder tore across the roof, Mickey didn’t flinch. And Ian felt satisfied. 

“Yeah? Well maybe if I had a better teacher," he shrugged, and laughed again when Mickey kicked at his shin. “I’m just saying!” 

“If you had a better teacher, he’d’a put you in the ground day one,” Mickey cackled. “...maybe I’m just dumb.” 

“Oh, what? The mighty Mickey admitting he's not the world’s best at something?” Ian teased, feeling damn near giddy. 

“Nah, man. I’m just saying... maybe you...” he trailed off, losing the smile at once, replacing Ian’s happiness with a dreaded sinking feeling. 

“Maybe I what, Mikhailo?” Mickey’s eyes snapped up at the name, but if he took issue with it, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath and said, 

“Maybe you make me dumb.” 

It was silent for a beat; Ian found himself swallowing, drinking in the words, letting them soak into his mind and soul.

“How so?” Ian challenged. Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“You’re just fuckin’... careless and… talk too much, and… sometimes it makes me talk too much, i’onno.” Mickey shrugged, bringing his thumb to his bottom lip to scratch it - a nervous tick, Ian had noticed. Mickey dropped his hand again, and looked to the floor, then he seemed to chance a look at Ian, who couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare. 

He knew - he _knew_ \- that odds were Mickey would never feel the way that he did. That he just wasn’t wired that way. But in that dim motel room, as he stared at him - the man with the blue eyes, and the dark hair, the scarred face and foul mouth - god, he had never before wanted to kiss someone that badly. Never. He thought perhaps he could feel the need tearing at his insides, clawing at him, begging him to do it - just once. Not just to feel his lips against his own, but to be close to him. To smell the crook of his neck, to slide his fingers through his hair. 

“What do you like to do if you don’t like to talk?” Ian heard himself ask. He thought he could see the muscles in Mickey’s neck move as he swallowed. Perhaps he even parted his lips to give a response.

But then the power was on, and the world was back to normal again. Mickey hummed appreciatively, and climbed to stand up, nearly there, hand on his knee when Ian grabbed his arm. 

“What do you like?” He insisted, deathly solemn, voice coming out in a whisper. Mickey gulped- hard enough for his Adam’s apple to bob up and down in a harsh wave. Ian could see the way his eyes shifted, looking back and forth between each of Ian’s. He looked like he wanted to say something, though Ian couldn’t possibly tell what it could be, before he cleared his throat and shook himself free of Ian’s hold. 

“Grab another minute of shut eye, Ian. We’re gonna head out soon. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.”

✦✦✦

Driving through nothing was worse than Ian had imagined. Nothing but highway and... not much else. He’d taken the first shift in driving, opting to let Mickey sleep since it seemed as if he hadn’t gotten much with the storm raging on. It was just before sunset, the light painting vibrant pinks and oranges across the sky- an unencumbered view of brilliantly colored landscape. It was breathtaking, despite Ian’s boredom and want for something new, but he couldn’t help wishing that Mickey was awake to see it, too. 

Chancing a glance over, Mickey looked just as nice as the sunset; purple tinted light mixed well with the pale planes of his face, highlighting at the tips of his dark hair. He looked nearly ethereal, Ian thought, if any human could look so. Not that he wasn’t always a handsome man, but in that moment, sleeping peacefully- the angry lines that creased his skin smoothed out- Ian couldn’t think of anything, ever, that he’d rather look at. 

✦✦✦

“Pull over in that gas station,” Mickey directed toward midnight, the sky falling from it’s rainbow of glowy light, fading into a never ending black, only broken up by tiny, twinkling stars. “I’ll take over for a little bit.” Ian nodded, taking note of the near-empty gas tank and smoothly parking in front of a self-pump station. 

“Fill ‘er up,” Mickey said as he nodded toward the nozzle. “I’ll go pay.” 

Ian waited for a moment once the tank was full, sliding around to the passengers side and making himself as comfortable as he could. As much as it pained him to admit, that horrible, springy bed was probably the closest thing to comfort that he was going to find the whole trip. 

“Here,” Mickey grumbled, tossing a paper bag at Ian before slamming the driver’s side door behind him and twisting the key in the ignition. 

“What’s this?” Ian asked, peering down into the bag. 

“Snacks, man. Gotta eat. There’s, uh, some’a those new Pepperidge Farm cookie things that you said you liked.”

“Thank you,” Ian said, cursing the feeling in the pit of his stomach that appeared. It wasn’t a big deal - they were… friends. Friends got each other their favorite kind of snacks, friends thought of each other like that. It was not something that should have caused those pesky thoughts to appear in Ian’s brain once again - the thoughts that maybe, just maybe… _probably_ not - but _maybe_. He put a stop to them, not letting himself think the full thought, as Mickey pulled the car back out onto the road. “Want one?” Ian asked, holding one of the cookies out for Mickey, who took it with a shrug. “They’re good right?” Ian teased after his first bite. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey grumbled, but finished the entire thing in three bites. 

After the bag of snacks was half empty, they switched to a cigarette, passing it back and forth as the night slowly surrounded them. The rain was still chattering against the windows, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as before; the thunder and harsh wind was nowhere to be seen. 

“So,” Ian said as Mickey stubbed the cigarette out, humming in question. “Louis Armstrong, Charles Trenet, and Duke Ellington. Who else?”

“Why you care so much about music, man?” Ian shrugged at that, refusing to give the response that he had on his tongue - ‘ _because you seem to_ ’. The tone of Mickey’s voice when Ian had asked him about the music he liked had sounded somewhat akin to the way that he talked about Yevgeny - and finding things that Mickey was passionate about, that he liked to talk about, it wasn’t that easy. “I don’t know…” Mickey gave in, eyes still glued to the road, neck against the headrest. 

Ian took a moment to look at him again, to appreciate him. Unless Mickey was sleeping or driving, he could never really do so, could never really chance it. In fact, even now, it was risky, but Ian couldn’t help it. He was so, so beautiful. And the more Ian looked, the more 'imperfections' that he found, the more beautiful he became. Sure, the shape of his face, the color of his eyes, the way the street lights flashed across his features - beautiful. But there was also the faint scars across his cheeks, the frown lines along his forehead that he should have been too young to have developed; the faintest hint of razor burn along his jawline - beautiful. God, Ian was far gone. Almost as far gone as he was stupid. 

“Frank Sinatra I guess, Billie Holiday,” Mickey answered Ian’s question, blissfully unaware of the thoughts within his head. Then he let out a slight chuckle. “Got a television, been letting Yev watch those Walt Disney movies when they’re on. Kid’s been running around singing the songs, won’t stop,” he said. “Drives me half insane.”

“Aw, Mick. You don’t have to lie to me. I know you secretly love those movies. Hey! You could be one of the seven dwarfs- Grumpy!” Mickey scowled over at him, his face hard and irritated. It didn’t fill his intention of making Ian shut up; instead, it sent him into a fit of breathy laughter. “Oh my god, that’s perfect. Look at you!” Mickey smacked at him, though half heartedly, and finally broke into a little grin of his own. 

“Yeah, okay, Dopey,” he shot back, a snort of laughter breaking through. Ian grinned brightly, pleased that they were on teasing terms. Pleased that Mickey looked a little less put together and a little more happy; younger.

“Speaking of Yev, I miss him. Been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen him. You holding out on me?” 

“Nah, man. Been busy,” Mickey told him, eyes searching around the road. “He misses you, too. Won’t shut the fuck up about ya. Just like I knew he wouldn’t. You’re gonna have to be meaner to him next time.” 

“I could never. He might just be my best friend,” Ian laughed, smile only faltering for a moment when he realized it might actually be true. 

“That’s kinda sad,” Mickey scoffed. 

“It kinda is. But at least I have a best friend. Who’s yours, tough guy? Your right hand doesn’t count.” Mickey’s smile fell, too, at that. And for the fleetest little bit of time, Ian could swear that Mickey’s eyes flicked over to his own before shrugging his shoulders. 

“Don’t got time for friends.” 

“That’s kinda sad,” Ian repeated Mickey’s previous words, managing to get the corners of his mouth twitching again. 

“Fuck off, man,” Mickey mumbled, no heat the words.

Ian let the conversation go after that, but couldn’t help but feel a sadness creep back into his chest. Just like when he had asked Mickey if anyone was on his side, and he had resorted to saying Aleksandr - although true, Ian wished that he had more people who cared about him. He wished that Mickey would let more people in. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had let Ian in - partly, perhaps, but not really. Not enough for Ian to be able to wedge is shoe in, should Mickey decide to slam it shut once again. 

✦✦✦

A few hours passed by without them speaking much - but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was a peaceful feeling - the hum of the car engine, the low volume of the music on the radio, the world passing by in a blur. 

“You hungry?” Mickey questioned once they had driven far enough that the storm was long gone, a city starting to appear in the distance, several signs, pointing them to various sit-downs and drive-ins. 

“Business expense?” Ian asked, which dragged a chuckle out of Mickey. 

“Sure, man. What you want?” 

They ended up getting some burgers and shakes that they ate while Ian took over the driver’s seat for a while. Mickey got extra pickles on his burger, and for once, Ian managed to think before more embarrassing words came pouring out of his mouth. 

The remainder of the drive included another driver’s switch, and a fair amount of singing on Ian’s end - which Mickey seemed to tolerate, at most. 

✦✦✦

By the time that they made it to the lone house in the middle of the Colorado desert, Ian felt as if they had been on the road for years, and seconds, all at the same time. 

“Someone actually lives here?” Ian couldn’t help but question. 

“These people gotta stay under the radar, man. More than we do.”

Mickey brought the car to a slow stop, kicking up a cloud of dust from the dirt road, billows of it washing across the windows in a dizzying haze. Mickey clicked the ignition off, but didn’t pull the key out of its place, instead letting the quiet settle on them for a moment. 

“I don’t need to tell you not to speak, do I?” Mickey asked. “These guys are a little different than the ones back home. Just stay safe, okay?” Ian nodded and swallowed down his fear as he reached for the door handle, intent on shaking out his scrunched up legs. “Wait,” Mickey said, grabbing for Ian’s arm. “Take a piece. Just in case.” He nodded for the glove box, and Ian knew better than to act like a scared little boy. He did his best to remain impassive as he grabbed the gun waiting inside, and slid it into the back of his trousers smoothly when he stood. 

It was a little complicated, Ian thought, the way that Mickey knocked in the door. A series of bangs followed by a couple more lighter taps, and then the door was opening. 

“Got something for me, Johnny?” Mickey asked, not bothering to wait for the door to be fully opened, instead shouldering his way past like he owned the place. Ian thought that it would probably be better if he took his cue from Mickey, who seemed so confident when Ian felt like his rubber legs would snap from beneath him, and pushed his way inside as well. 

“Who’s the new guy?” ‘Johnny,’ asked, eyeing Ian warily. Ian stood a little taller and hardened his eyes, exhausted already from pretending to be something he wasn’t. 

“Name’s Ian. Partner of mine,” Mickey said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not gonna be a problem, is it? Ain’t got all day, man.” 

“Yeah, well maybe you’d have a little more tune if you weren’t fucking late, Milkovich,” the man spat back, and the tone of his voice had Ian’s hair raising from his skin. He wasn’t a stranger to people being rude- he had been running with Mickey’s family for more than just a short while, but this man- Ian didn’t know him. Didn’t know how unpredictable he was or what he could say to help. So he didn’t say anything. He just kept quiet and watched Mickey work. 

“Shit happens. Now, can we please-,” 

“It your fault you’re late, new guy? Look about as dumb as a box of fucking rocks. Probably can’t read a map, huh?” 

“Ay,” Mickey growled, stepping in front of Ian before he could even process the other man’s words. “You got a problem with him, you got a problem with me. You hear me? So the way I see it; you for two choices here. Either you apologize to my friend here for your stupid little comments. Or two, and my personal favorite, you walk away with a broken jaw and a call out into Aleks. You go ahead and make your choice.”

Ian kept his hand folded around his wrist, arms in front of him as he stayed silent, observing the scene in front of him. At Mickey’s words, Johnny seemed to step back, but only for a split second before he raised his chin, as if something clicked in his head. 

“Oh,” he said, and Ian swore he could see Mickey’s shoulders tense up. “This is the new puppy I heard about?” The words were drenched in a mocking tone.

“I assure you any puppy I got’s a lot more bite than bark, so it might be about time for you to run along, yeah? Before you got another bump in that nose bridge of yours.” 

“You’re really protective over him,” Johnny noted, and Mickey took another step to the side, until he was blocking Ian completely. Ian wouldn’t tear his eyes away from Johnny, wouldn’t relax the tension in his jaw, or the chill in his eyes. But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t aware of Mickey stepping in front of him. Mickey protecting him. Just like Johnny had said.

“He don’t need to be protected. I’m watching him, be a real shame for me to unleash him on you, let him dig his puppy teeth into that pretty face of yours,” Mickey warned, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Alright, alright,” Johnny finally seemed to fold when Ian reached behind himself, placing his hand onto the weapon tucked into the waist of his slacks. “Not in the mood, I get it. I’ll be right back.”

Ian held his silence as they waited for Johnny to come back. Ian wasn’t sure what they were waiting for, but he certainly hadn’t been expecting five bricks of pure cocaine. He managed to keep his face neutral as Mickey gave Johnny one last look of warnings before they turned around, and headed back out to the car. 

Mickey opened the trunk, and expertly placed the bricks into a false bottom, making them invisible for anyone just opening the trunk without digging. 

“Want me to drive?” Ian spoke for the first time since Mickey had knocked on the door. Mickey shook his head. 

“Nah, I got it.”

They were back on the road for about ten minutes before Ian interrupted the silence. 

“Thanks.”

“The fuck for?” Mickey questioned, while taking one hand off the wheel to reach for the pack of lucky strikes, placing one of the cigarettes in between his lips and lighting it up.

“You’re on my side, too,” Ian explained, slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t realized how true that statement was until just now. Mickey made a vague grunt in the back of his throat - the verbal version of waving him off - but Ian hadn’t really been expecting anything more. It did nothing to dull the warm feeling slowly growing inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who might have missed it, this story has a trailer now! [You can watch it right here!](https://anothergallavichlove.tumblr.com/post/625992585946726400/blood-in-bleed-out-the-year-is-1954-tony)


	14. fourteen

“Son of a fucking bitch!” Mickey cried, and try as he might, Ian was powerless to stop the torrent of laughter that spilled from his mouth. He doubled over with it, tears spilling from his eyes, as Mickey sneered at him, face covered in stinky grease and hair trapped beneath a net. 

“You,” Ian gasped, “you look fucking ridiculous!” 

“Oh, I do? Bitch, look at your ass,” Mickey grinned and aimed the hose in his hand toward Ian, firing a hard jet of water over his already soaking clothes. 

They were late in getting the shipment back, to no one's surprise. A full day late, and as far as Aleksandr was concerned, that was a big no-no. He’d reamed both Ian and Mickey, scolded them for being so thoughtless. So careless with something that would bring them so much money. Mickey, ever the hero, fell on the sword, swearing to Aleks that Ian wanted to keep going, to push through and just drive- but Mickey had forced him to stop. The rain wasn’t an excuse, his uncle told him. And Mickey was in the doghouse for making him look bad- but the punishment was far less than Ian had ever imagined; a week’s pay docked from them both, the kitchen (including the grease traps) needed a good scrubbing, and Mickey was put on book work for the foreseeable future. 

“Oh, you’re the worst,” Ian whined, trying, and failing, to fling the water from his wet skin, but only really succeeding in forming fresh dirty streaks. 

“Yeah. S’what you get,” Mickey smiled, giving him another quick spray for good measure before turning back to the real task. As much as Ian would like to keep screwing around with Mickey as if they were two children, they were at work, so he turned back as well, continuing to scrub the inside of the fridge. As he did so, though, he snuck the occasional glance Mickey’s way. Ian shouldn’t be feeling happy, scrubbing old butter and solidified grease at seven am, but he couldn’t help it. Somehow, whenever Mickey was around, he had a feeling there was a lot that he wouldn’t mind. 

“So uh…” Mickey interrupted his thoughts, not tearing his eyes away from the grease trap that he was currently cleaning. “Kid’s got a birthday coming up. Been yapping at me to make sure you’ll show up.” Ian stopped his scrubbing, abandoning the sponge on the refrigerator shelf as he took a step closer to Mickey, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the kitchen counter. 

“My best friend is having a birthday party and I have to hear about it from his dad?” He said in mock offense. Mickey rolled his eyes, turning the hose on Ian for another split second, earning himself a middle finger. “When is it?” Ian asked, heading back to the fridge to pick the sponge back up. 

“Sunday. Ain’t gonna be huge - me and his mom, some of her family. Aleks. Probably Iggy.”

“Terry?” Ian found himself asking. Seeing as he was Yevgeny’s grandfather, it would only make sense, but he wasn’t very surprised with Mickey’s answer. 

“Nah, man. Gonna be a whole lot less chaos without that old bastard around to ruin everything.” He said it with a slight chuckle, but Ian thought he could hear a slight sadness in his tone, despite the attempt to cover it up. 

“What’s he wish for?” Ian asked, figuring it was a safer topic for now.

“He’ll be happy with whatever you give him, Fish. Kid thinks you’re a saint.”

“Well, I gotta give him what he wants. Pretty sure the only reason you like me is cause Yev forces you to,” Ian mused, tilting his head to make himself look even more pitiful. 

“Who said I like you?” 

“Please. I’m your favorite and you know it.” 

“You keep telling yourself that, Ian,” Mickey snarked, but there wasn’t any malice laced in his voice, only a gentle teasing. Ian let himself smile, knowing that Mickey couldn’t see him. 

“So, uh, Yevy’s mom. Her family- they gonna be okay with me being there? An outsider?” Ian heard a grunt from behind him, and the loud metal clack of the grease trap being set back into place. He felt Mickey before he saw him- the presence of another body leaned on the counter next to where he was working. 

“Not an outsider. You’re sworn in. You’re expected at family events now.” 

“Yeah, okay. But- I don’t know. Seems like it’s just _family_...” 

“Alright,” Mickey laughed. “I’ll go get him on the phone and you tell him you’re not coming cause you’re scared of his mommy.” 

“Don’t use him against me. I’m powerless when it comes to those big blue eyes.” God, he was an idiot. Ian Gallagher was the dumbest, most irresponsible dumbass with zero sense of self preservation, he thought. He glanced at Mickey for only a quick second, taking note of his quirked brow and twitching lips. He turned back just as quickly when Mickey cleared his throat and stood up straight. 

“Better not say no, then.” 

✦✦✦

Later that night, Ian was leaning against the kitchen island, absentmindedly chewing on a hangnail.

“Hey, what’s going on in that head of yours?” Fiona asked, coming down the stairs with a bag of laundry that she placed by the backdoor, as a reminder for someone to take it to the laundromat. “You look like you’re trying to figure out the meaning of life or somethin’.” Ian shook his head, a sigh of amusement leaving his lips. 

“Might as well. It’s uh… Yevgeny’s birthday on Sunday. I have… absolutely no idea what to get him.” Fiona rolled her eyes. 

“That boy loves you, no matter what you get him, he’s gonna look at you like you’re a god.”

“Yeah, that’s what Mickey said, too… I mean, pretty much.” The problem was that Ian didn’t want to get Yevgeny just anything - he wanted him to have something that he would actually like. “I don’t know, what did Liam like at his age? I don’t remember.”

“Puzzles? But Liam's a little bit of a weird kid.”

“Yeah, yeah maybe,” he mumbled, leaning in to give his sister a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Fi.” 

✦✦✦

Ian made a day of it. He woke up early, ate a quick breakfast comprised of soggy oatmeal, dressed in his finest, and out the door he went. He went to store after store after store, trying to find the perfect thing, though for who, he didn’t really know. For Yevgeny, of course, but who was he really trying to impress? A four year old? Chances were he wouldn’t even remember what he’d gotten a week after his birthday, so the stress he was imposing on himself was more than asinine. But still, he couldn’t help shelling out more bills than he’d budgeted for, carrying home a fistful of gift bags. 

“Looks like you robbed a joint,” Lip said as Ian ambled through the front door and kicking it closed behind him. 

“Yevgeny’s birthday,” he breathed back, letting the bags fall to the floor before sliding his shoes off and setting them nicely together out of the way. 

“You, ah, didn’t steal ‘em, right?” 

“No, you fucking asshole. I paid, like every other red blooded American,” he huffed and rolled his eyes, collapsing on the couch with a contented sigh. 

“Right. And where you getting that kind of dough?” 

“Lip, do you not take notice of how many fucking hours per week I work? I work non stop. And I get paid well.” 

“Right. Okay,” Lip nodded in agreement before settling down on the recliner just across from him. “So, who’s good side you trying to get on, here? Yev’s... or his dad’s?” Ian eyed him curiously. Outwardly, he didn’t seem as if he were asking any deep questions. He sat normally, ankle crossed over his knee, cigarette hanging lazily from his parted lips. But Ian knew his brother better than he knew anyone, and he knew that there was more than meets the eye. 

“What are you asking?” 

“Think you know,” Lip said with a shrug and took a drag of his cigarette. Ian sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands nervously. He chances a look back up at his older brother, who hadn’t moved and hadn’t changed his demeanor, which Ian was thankful for. 

“Which answer you want? The truth, or the one that’ll make you feel better?” 

He perched his lips and rolled his head from side to side, seemingly thinking it over. Ian waited with tense muscles and a rapidly beating heart, worried that he might be about to get in a fight, or thrown out. Or worse. 

“I want whichever answer makes you happy, Ian. But I also want you to tell me that you won’t do anything stupid,” he let out a breath and sat back. “And that you’ll be safe.” 

“Doesn’t matter much anyway,” Ian said, a little more morosely than he’d intended. “S’not like he’s into it.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that, brother,” Lip grinned before standing up and heading toward the stairs. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian asked, but was only met with silence. “Lip! What’s that supposed to mean?!”

✦✦✦

The hour later found Ian standing by the side of his thin twin bed, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he nervously looked down at the variety of items spread out in front of him, bags at his feet.

“Wow…” The word was accompanied by the sound of footsteps so heavy and inconsiderate they could only belong to Carl. Ian rolled his eyes, not bothering to turn around to face him. 

“Unless you got something helpful to say, please shut up.” Ian had expected Carl to do just that - head over to his own bed, or back out into the hallway without another word - instead he felt a presence next to him. When he looked up, he found his brother folding his arms over his chest to match his own stance as he looked down at the gifts, and then back to Ian. “What?” Ian questioned. Carl shrugged. 

“You said 'please'. Figured you must be drowning. Did I forget Liam’s birthday?” 

“No. It’s Yevgeny’s. I didn’t know what to get him, so I just got everyth - what?” he interrupted himself when he saw Carl bite back a smirk. 

“You’re really trying to impress him.” 

“Of course I am, he’s a good kid.” 

“That sounded like I was talking about the kid to you?” 

“Carl, you know what? Lip already did this,” Ian said, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder in an attempt to push him back out of their shared room. 

“Fine, fine - “ Carl went willingly back out into the hallway. “Give him the ray gun!” 

✦✦✦

Mickey had let Ian know that the guests were expected to be at the house around five o’clock - and had made it explicitly clear that this was not one of the times when Ian should be early to make a good impression. In fact, he had nearly spit into his face to make sure he knew that if he was there at four thirty, and as a result woke Yevgeny from his nap, he would be taking a nice nap at the bottom of the ocean. Of course Ian knew by now that he was being dramatic, especially regarding such a trivial possible mistake - but Ian obeyed, nevertheless, and arrived at Mickey’s house at four fifty nine. He was carrying two gift bags, as he had been unable to choose in between the Buck Rogers Sonic Ray Gun, and the large Dinosaur toy that he figured Yevgeny’s army men could gang up on - he hadn’t been able to find a Compsognathus, but he hoped that the Tyrannosaurus Rex wouldn’t be too disappointing. 

Ian took a breath, and knocked on the wooden door. It didn’t take long before he heard the tell-tale steps of an excited child on the other side, and his smile broke out right as the door opened to reveal Yevgeny grinning, stretching his arms towards him. 

“Ian! You came!” He cheered, and Ian laughed, letting go of the gift bags in order to pick him up, giving him a hug. 

“Of course I did, buddy! I couldn’t miss my best friend’s birthday! How old are you now?” He questioned as he put him back down onto the floor, frowning as if he was really struggling to remember. “Fifteen?”

“I’m four!” Yevgeny objected, before bubbly laughter spilled out of him. Ian laughed as well, before his attention was shifted to Mickey, who came up behind Yevgeny. 

“We gonna let Ian come through the door?” Mickey questioned, looking down at his son, and Ian had a feeling that this was something that they had talked about before. 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Ian,” Yevgeny mumbled, but his mood seemed no less bright as he backed up, letting Ian enter. “Are both of those for me?!” He asked, a shocked look on his face as he looked down at the two gift bags in Ian’s hand. 

“Of course they are, why do you think I should give one to your dad? Think he’s gonna be sad?” Ian didn’t look away from Yevgeny as he began jumping up and down, assuring him that he should absolutely not give one of _his_ gifts to Mickey, but he did catch the older Milkovich rolling his eyes. 

“Daddy says I can’t open gifts until everyone gets here,” Yevgeny said, then.

“Well, I think we should listen to your dad - I think it’s gonna be really fun to open them all at once, don’t you?” Yevgeny had clearly wanted him to object, but Ian decided it would be in his own best interest to help Mickey out when it came to things like this. “I bet you’re gonna have so many!” Ian nodded as if he was agreeing with his own words, thankful when they brought a grin back onto Yevgeny’s face. 

“Yeah, you’re right!” Then he turned around, and ran into the opposite direction, disappearing behind a corner. “Uncle Iggy, Ian got me _two_ presents!” 

“Come have a beer, man - Ig’s the only one here so far,” Mickey said, heading towards the kitchen, nodding for Ian to follow him. Ian did so. They shared mindless conversation as Mickey uncapped a beer each, but after a few swallows, Ian placed the bottle back down onto the kitchen island, and reached into his pocket, figuring that were he to wait, he would overthink it, and become too nervous to actually go through with it. 

“I kind of lied - I did get Yev two presents, but I got you something, too.” Mickey raised his eyebrows, as he brought his own beer to his lips. The way he was leaned back against the counter, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, suspenders on, but no tie - he looked so good. But Ian knew that now was not the time to stare. “It’s nothing, I just saw them and liked them - don’t got anyone else I know whose name starts with an M, so…” Ian trailed off, presenting the small cufflinks. 

They were rectangular, painted a light gold color, each one engraved with an ‘M’ in old English font. Ian hadn’t meant to buy Mickey anything, but he had stumbled upon them in a pawn shop, and for some reason, he hadn’t been able to leave before purchasing them for Mickey. He couldn’t imagine a pair of cufflinks that would look better on him - as if they had been made for him, and him alone. 

Mickey placed his beer back down onto the counter, and took a few steps closer to Ian, looking down at them. The lack of verbal response immediately brought Ian’s need for rambling back to the surface. 

“It’s not like I went looking for-” 

“Well, are you gonna give ‘em to me or not?” Mickey asked, hand overturned and outstretched. 

Ian bit his lip, shy like he’d never felt before, and put the tiny box in Mickey’s hand. He took a step back, wanting to be in Mickey’s space, but a little embarrassed and ready to disengage from the situation. He was just about to turn around and wander off to find Yevgeny, when Mickey cleared his throat. 

“These are nice, Ian.” 

“You think so?” He asked hopefully, trying not to let his relief flood his features. But if Mickey’s amused eyes were anything to go by- he was failing miserably. 

“Yeah, man. They’re swell. Like ‘em a lot. Thanks.” 

“Yeah,” Ian shrugged. “Yeah, of course, Mikhailo.” 

“Watch it,” Mickey warned, but smiled nonetheless, only decomposing himself when the front door opened and the clack of high heels sounded against the hardwood. 

“Mikhailo,” a woman called, and Ian stiffened at the sound. He knew, without having to turn around, without a doubt that it was Yevgeny’s mom. Someone who’d been with Mickey in all the ways that Ian couldn’t, and suddenly he forgot all of the reasons that he’d shown up in the first place. He wanted to leave. To run as far and fast as his legs would take him. But he didn’t. Didn’t move and inch, even as Mickey pocketed the cufflinks and stepped around him to greet her. 

“Mama!” Little feet ran towards her, and finally, Ian built up the nerve to turn in place and watch them. Watched as she bent to pick up her son and hug him tight. Watched as Mickey gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. As Mickey ruffled Yev’s hair and as the three of them made a picture perfect family portrait. 

“Mama! You have to meet Ian! He’s my friend. He brought me two presents! Two!” Yevgeny screeched, pointing Ian’s way and leaving him like a deer in headlights; caught, and afraid to move, but desperately wanting to run back into the woods, far away from people.

“I have heard of you,” she said, a slight Russian accent painting the words - Russian; not Ukrainian. By now, Ian knew the difference. He observed her stepping forwards; the hunter to his deer. Had he been a character in one of those animated films, surely his gulp would have been visible. He had seen her before - through the window, that time when she had shown up to get Yevgeny. So he had not been expecting anything but a stunning woman in heels and a coat the price of the entire Gallagher house - but seeing her up close, actually meeting her - it was different. He was a lot more intimidated than he would ever admit. 

“I’ve heard of you, too,” he said politely, pretending as if her clear attempt at shooing him back into the woods hadn’t been as effective as she most likely hoped. He offered her his hand, and she shook it, somehow managing to look down at him despite being a good few inches shorter. 

“You are Mikhailo’s fish. How close are you to my son?” 

“Christ, Lana,” Ian heard Mickey sigh, where he stood, off to the side. By now, Yevgeny had run out of the kitchen, probably greeting the rest of her family - Ian could hear them out in the living room, chattering in Russian, Yevgeny responding just as easily. “He’s good with the kid, the kid likes him, stop holding him at gunpoint.” 

Svetlana - Ian remembered her name now - looked to Mickey, and then she looked back to Ian. Then, something… changed. In her eyes - the classic Russian stare faded, in its place was something a whole lot softer - not _soft_ , but… soft _er_. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” she told him. 

“You, too,” he assured her with a nod. Then she turned around and headed back into the living room, leaving Ian to catch his breath. It didn’t exactly help when he felt Mickey’s hand curl around his shoulder. “She’s, uh, she’s somethin’,” Ian nearly panted. 

“She’s a good mom. S’all I care about.” 

“Christ, how’d you even get it up with her? My dick would’a been scared to even come out,” Ian joked, hoping something lighthearted would make him feel better. But as he turned back to face Mickey, he realized his mistake. Mickey looked... not mad, per se, but nowhere near entertained. “Shit, I didn’t mean- didn’t mean anything by it. She’s gorgeous,” he offered weakly, trying to dig himself out of the proverbial hole he’d thrown himself into. 

“She is,” Mickey agreed, tight lipped and white knuckled. “Whatever. Go- mingle or some shit.” 

“I can’t speak their language,” Ian muttered, but Mickey was already gone. 

✦✦✦

A wallflower. Ian vaguely remembered the term, pressed back away from everyone, becoming one with the plaster of Mickey’s living room. He took a sip from the bottle of sweaty beer in his hand and watched as Yevgeny ran from person to person, a perfect host, despite his age. He laughed and tended to everyone, wise beyond his years, it seemed. 

“Ian!” He yelled, when he finally made his rounds, too loud to be so close, but Ian didn’t mind. 

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” He asked and knelt down to match the little boy’s height. 

“I’m not a bacon! You are,” Yevgeny giggled. “My dad said it’s time to eat! Come on!” He grabbed Ian’s hand without a thought, leading him toward the kitchen, and right to Mickey. 

“Here, dad. Here’s Ian. You get me and him some food, okay?” 

“Demanding little shit, aren’t you?” Mickey asked, crinkling up his eyes in that way that made Ian feel like he was glowing. 

“Well, it’s my party, so... come on, Ian. You can sit by me!” Ian smiled as Mickey shook his head disapprovingly. He wished more than anything that he could say something to gauge if Mickey completely hated him again, but he came up short. 

“Sorry, Mick. It’s his party. I have to do what he says.”

So Ian ended up sitting next to Yevgeny as they ate, which on one hand, of course he was happy about - he liked Yevgeny. On the other hand, sitting next to the birthday boy brought all the more attention and eyes his way. The more time that passed, the more he got the feeling that he was somewhere he didn’t belong. He felt… happy to see Yevgeny so obviously excited, but everything else about the night, it just felt… itchy. 

Things got somewhat better when they all moved into the living room for Yevgeny to open his presents - Ian managed to score a sofa chair on the sidelines, hoping that no one thought him to be taking too much space. Yevgeny started by opening the gifts from his mother’s side of the family - a lot of them had packaging in Russian, and he tended to speak Russian to Svetlana as well, so Ian didn’t know what most of the gifts were, but he seemed excited nonetheless. After a while, he moved over to the gifts labeled with names like Iggy, Aleksandr, and Dad - Aleksandr, by the way, who Ian had managed to avoid for the majority of the night, but who was sitting across the room, every once in a while throwing a glance Ian’s way as if he was reminding him that he was not ecstatic about ‘the new guy’ honing in on the Milkovich family birthday parties. Ian had realized by now that there were family events, and there were _family_ events. 

“You got me the Ray Gun?!” Yevgeny’s loud voice tore Ian from his thoughts, and he turned to him, nodding. 

“Yeah, you like it?” 

“Yeah!” Yevgeny exclaimed, as if Ian was completely out of his mind for even asking. He continued to rant about how much he loved the gift, and how happy he was while he made his way across the room, climbing up into Ian’s lap, throwing his little arms around his neck. “Thank you! I love you, Ian!” 

“Love you, Yev,” Ian promised, while returning the hug. He wasn’t blind to the way some of the people in the room rolled their eyes - mostly Svetlana’s family members - but Ian couldn’t get himself to care too much. The kid was adorable, Ian was nothing but honored that he thought so highly of him. 

After that, Yevgeny opened Ian’s second gift, which sparked a reaction at least as large as the Ray Gun. Then he moved onto Iggy and Aleksandr’s gifts - which were once again not American items, and Yevgeny spoke a mix of Ukrainian and English to them, so Ian wasn’t too sure what they gave him either, but he seemed happy. The last gift that needed opening was one marked with Mickey’s name - or rather, ‘Dad’. 

“This box is so big, dad!” Yev commented, voice high pitched and full of absolute, undeniable glee. 

“It is,” Mickey agreed, scratching the back of his neck, looking particularly unsure of himself. “Careful. Don’t hurt yourself, alright?” 

“I won’t!” Yevgeny tore into the plain brown paper that wrapped the gift, shredding it and turning the living room into a confetti-filled mess, Mickey didn’t seem to mind. He watched on, lip between his teeth as the last piece was shed. 

“Oh, dad,” Yevgeny said, voice quieter than Ian had ever heard come from him. For a moment he was worried for Mickey’s sake- it seemed like a nice gift. A small, very new, very expensive looking guitar. Made with beautiful, dark wood and shiny strings. Ian would have been happy to have it, even without knowing the first thing about playing. But Yev seemed... upset? Wiping at his face, he turned to face his dad. 

“Daddy,” he whined, and fell into Mickey’s arms, hugging him tightly and squeezing at his neck. 

“Do you not like it? I can take it back...” Mickey mumbled, looking around the room, face flushed with embarrassment. 

“No! I love it. It’s the best present I got,” Yevgeny sobbed. It clicked for Ian, then, that he was the furthest thing from upset. He was elated. Too emotional to find the right words. 

“Will you teach me to play?” He asked as he leaned back, rubbing the back of his hand over his watery eyes. 

“Yeah, buddy. ‘Course I will. S’why I got it,” Mickey smiled, but Ian could see the faintest shine in his eyes, too. 

“Thank you, dad. Thank you. I love it,” Yevgeny reassured him, jumping down from his lap and dragging the box to Mickey, demanding that he open it right then and there. “Do we need to tune it?” Yevgeny asked, thoughtfully as Mickey helped him take the instrument out of the box. Mickey was clearly somewhat of a decent player if Yevgeny already knew the terms. 

“Nah, kid, already set everything up before I wrapped it, it’s all ready to play,” Mickey assured him. 

“Yay!” Yevgeny cheered, pushing the guitar into his dad’s arms. “Play something,” he demanded. 

“Yev, I was thinking we could sit down tomorrow and look at some chords-”

“Ay,” Iggy objected. “Birthday kid tell you to do somethin’, you do it, my brother.” 

“Think he’s right, Mick,” Ian shrugged, which earned him a glare - though it wasn’t too full of heat. 

“Alright,” Mickey cleared his throat and corrected his grip on the guitar, before starting to pluck the strings. The room immediately erupted into song as they recognized the tune of ‘Happy Birthday’ Ian included, of course. Although as he sang along, he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from Mickey. God, he was so irritated with himself for not having developed the kind of self control that he should have by now. 

But… fuck. There was something about the image of Mickey hunched over the small guitar, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he played the notes perfectly - and in that moment, Ian absolutely hated him for the things that he made him feel. 

The night went on, and soon enough, people started dropping out - Iggy and Aleksandr left, and so did half of Svetlana’s family. When it became clear that the party was wrapping up, Ian started taking some of the used glasses from the living room into the kitchen, placing them into the sink. He figured that the least he could do was help clean up, considering the way that he had put his foot in his mouth before. Which he was still not sure if Mickey had forgiven him for, or if the door of friendship had once again slammed shut. 

“мама, я хочу остаться с Ианом,” he heard Yevgeny say from the living room. Usually, he shut out the sound of Russian, as he couldn’t understand it, and didn’t have a reason to learn it - as supposed to Ukrainian - but Yevgeny sounded incredibly upset, so Ian frowned, making his way back out into the room. 

"Yev, listen to your mom," Mickey tried sternly, but that only ended in a foot stomp and a reddened face from his son. 

"немає! це мій день народження. ти повинен мене дозволити, тато!" Yevgeny yelped, turning up the water works, and crying out when his mom grabbed for him. "No, no dad! Don't make me go! I wanna stay with you tonight! You and Ian! Please!"

“Yevgeny,” he sighed, gripping the bridge of his nose and squinting his eyes shut. “Ian isn’t gonna stay here tonight. He has his own house.” 

“He stayed that one time!” He whined, and instantly Ian was on the spot, with hardened brown eyes from Svetlana snapping to him, narrowing as she looked him up and down. 

“ти дозволив йому залишитися тут з нашим сином?” She directed at Mickey, in what sounded like Ukrainian. Ian felt so lost- everyone around him was bi-lingual, and he couldn’t keep up to save his life. Maybe he’d always be that way- an outcast in the ‘family.’ 

“розслабтеся, він присягнув. він багато збирається до нього,” he said to Svetlana, clearly irritated by now. And then, softer, to Yevgeny, “...he didn’t stay because he lives here. He stayed because...” Mickey looked around before locking eyes with Ian. He opened and closed his mouth more than once, trying to let the words fall out, but nothing did, until, “He was hurt.” 

“You’re hurt?!” Yevgeny wailed, looking to Ian for answers. 

“No,” Ian said at the same time Mickey said, “not that kind of hurt.” 

“If he’s hurt you have to tell me!” 

“Yev,” he sighed, exhaustion sleeping through his bones. “He was hurt like... in here,” he said and poked at Yevgeny’s chest. 

“He was sad? You’re sad?” 

“Not anymore,” Ian told him, though there wasn’t any honesty behind it. He wondered if he should have made a quicker exit, kicking himself for sticking around and causing problems. Why, why couldn’t he ever just leave Mickey alone?

“Look, Yev. He ain’t gonna stay tonight. He’s fine. You’re fine. I’m fine. Everybody’s fine. But it’s your night to stay at your mom’s. You’ll be back here before you know it, okay?” He tried, voice soft as anything, as calm and sweet as Ian had ever heard it, and it sent another pang through him. 

And then Yevgeny pulled out the last of his arsenal- the biggest gun he had; “If you love me, you’ll let me stay. Please, daddy. Please let me stay.” 

Mickey bit his lip and let out a shuddering lungful of air, glancing at Svetlana and shrugged his shoulders, defeated. 

“морковний хлопчик тут не залишається,” she said, with something that sounded a whole lot like finality. 

“That’s none of your business, one way or the other. You gonna let the kid stay or not?” 

She glared at him, the same way she glared at Ian, and clicked her tongue, bending down to whisper something that Ian couldn’t hear to Yevgeny. He giggled and gave her a hug and a kiss, just as sweetly as if he hadn’t just had a major meltdown. The beauty of being a kid, Ian thought. 

“You will bring him to me tomorrow,” Svetlana told Mickey, and gave Ian one last fleeting look before her heels were clicking out the door. 

“Ian! I’m staying the night with my dad!” He said, running to Ian and pumping his fist in triumph. 

“I heard that. Sounds like a lot of fun, Yevy,” he promised, picking the little boy up and over his head. “You should check out your toys. Looks like you got a good haul.” Yevgeny agreed whole heartedly, bouncing back to the pile he’d gotten, sifting and sorting through them with a process that Ian would be hard pressed to figure out. “Hey,” Ian caught Mickey’s attention when Yevgeny was thoroughly distracted, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... overstay my welcome or anything. Just thought you might want help cleaning up.” 

“Yeah, thanks for that. Now I get a whole extra day with my kid,” Mickey rolled his eyes teasingly. “Seriously though, thanks for, uh. You know. Coming and... the kid really likes the shit you got him. Didn’t have spend so much coin on him.” Ian chose not to mention that he’d actually spent a bit more than he’d come with. 

“What are best friends for, huh?” 

“Kid’s got you wrapped around his grubby little finger,” Mickey shook his head disapprovingly. 

“S’a pretty cute finger,” Ian shrugged and stalked off to drop down next to Yev. 

✦✦✦

Very near eleven, Yevgeny started rubbing at his eyes. He sat sprawled in the middle of the floor, discarded packaging and wrapping creating a nest of sorts. 

“Ay, sleepy face,” Mickey called to him. “You ‘bout ready to head to bed?” 

“No,” Yevgeny snapped back, his spent energy leaving behind a cranky boy in its wake. 

“Think you might be.” 

“Ian, shoot dad with the ray gun,” Yevgeny directed, waving a lazy hand in Mickey’s direction. Ian smiled at Mickey’s eye roll, but picked it up and aimed it anyway. 

“What do you think, Yevy? Head or heart?” 

“He couldn’t hit me anyway, Yev. Don’t put all your eggs in his basket.” 

“You hear the way he talks to me, Yevgeny?” Ian asked, and frowned along with Yev. 

“You two can gang up on me all you want, but do it another time. Because Yev’s going to bed. Say good night, Yev.” 

“Night, Ian,” he yawned again, surprisingly letting himself be picked up and carried toward the steps. “I love you.” 

Mickey came back down not too much later, and let out a long, steady breath as he sat down next to Ian on the couch. 

“If you love me, you’ll let me stay,” Ian joked, echoing Yevgeny’s words from earlier. 

Mickey scoffed. “Well, I was gonna offer you a beer, but now...” Mickey trailed off, with a shrug, and Ian let out a sigh of amusement. 

“Now I ruined it… like I always do,” he finished, the words coated in a tone that suggested he was merely joking - which he was, to a degree, but there was also the very true reality that Ian tended to do just that. He had a tendency to speak first, and think later, especially when it came to his budding friendship with Mickey, and it had bit him in the ass one too many times. Not literally, of course. Never literally. 

“Nah, man,” Mickey shook his head, while he got up from the couch to head towards the kitchen. Ian ended up following him, relieved to see him open the fridge and bring out two bottles, cracking them open before handing one over to Ian. “Didn’t ruin it,” he finished, nearly a full minute after the start of his sentence. 

“When d’you change these?” Ian took the beer, but caught the cufflink in between his thumb and index finger, before Mickey could pull his hand back. He had gotten rid of the smaller ones that had been holding the cuffs of his sleeves together at the start of the night; in their place were the ones that Ian had gifted him. It shouldn’t have made Ian feel as warm inside as it did. He let Mickey take his hand back, and he watched as he looked down at the piece of metal, shrugging, as he made a noise of indifference. Somehow, Ian found himself not buying it. 

“Couple hours ago. ‘Lot nicer than the ones I was wearing, s’all,” he told Ian, before picking his bottle back up, placing it to his lips as Ian did the same. Both of them leaned back against opposite counters in the kitchen, their eyes meeting, the cold liquid making its way down their throats. 

“So, uh…” Ian broke the brief silence, looking down at the floor for a second before re-establishing the eye-contact - this time somewhat more casually. “That mean I don’t gotta apologize again? For what I said earlier? ‘Cause I kinda feel like I want to, Mick, I didn’t - “

“Christ, man…” Mickey shook his head, and Ian swallowed down the remainder of the words that had been on the tip of his tongue as Mickey placed his bottle back down onto the kitchen island, taking a few steps closer to Ian. Not nearly close enough to touch, but closer than Ian would ever have expected him to be comfortable with. “You ever shut up, Fish?” Ian didn’t say anything - even if he had been able to come up with any words to say, he doubted that his dry mouth would have let them leave without royally screwing up the pronunciation. Mickey didn’t exactly seem displeased with his silence. 

Ian looked into the blue eyes, not finding it any easier to conjure up any sufficient thoughts. Beyond, of course - ‘ _God, he’s beautiful_ ’ and ‘ _He’s so close_ ’ and ‘ _He really needs to back up, or I won’t be able to help myself._ ’ Instead of backing away, Mickey took half a step closer - perhaps half an arm-lengths away now - not quite close enough for it to look suspicious from the outside, but close enough that Ian could see the slight unevenness of his skin in the warm kitchen light. The wrinkles upon his lips. The way that his eyes left Ian’s to dance across his face, before settling back in place, their eyes connected. 

“If you don’t want me to do something really fucking stupid, Mick, you should probably back -” 

“Take a break, Fish - shut up,” Mickey told him, voice now lower in volume, as he took another half step closer. Ian took a beat to make sure that he couldn’t detect any mocking or teasing in his eyes, and that he wasn’t imagining the hand that fell against the side of his waist. “Talk way too fucking much,” Mickey mumbled, but Ian wasn’t listening anymore, the words were muffled, like a blurry photograph, out of focus. 

Because Mickey was moving closer, and Ian could no longer look into his eyes; could do nothing but stare at his lips - nothing but feel the heat of his body closer to his own than it had ever been. Was Mickey testing him? Would Mickey throw him out? Somehow, Ian already knew the answer to those questions, but a part of him wanted to pretend that the answer was yes - that Mickey didn’t… want this. Because if Mickey wanted this, that would double the complications. Double the worries. 

But Mickey was there, so, so close to Ian, now - close enough that Ian would only need to dip his head down and catch those lips in between his own - like he had wanted to do for so long now. Mickey was there, and Mickey wanted this. So Ian swallowed, chanced one last look into his eyes, and then he placed his hand at the back of his neck. 

“Dad!” Yevgeny’s voice, thick with tears, rang through the house, and the spell was immediately broken. Mickey poured out of Ian’s hands like fine sand through a sieve, as he disappeared into the living room to tend to his son. 

Ian ran his hands down his face, cupping his cheeks and covering his eyes. He fucked up. Monumentally. He ruined any chance they had at friendship, always pushing. Making jokes. Taking it too far. It was a long day, he figured, and Mickey, surely, wasn’t going to do what Ian thought he was going to do. Maybe. 

Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t push it again. He’d be good. He’d do better. He wouldn’t put his feelings for Mickey out in the open, and he wouldn’t make a big deal out of what happened. He’d pretend it never happened, because that’s what was best for everyone. Because even if there was a small - tiny, minuscule - chance that Mickey felt the same way, it wasn't a good idea to act on it. It was a really, really bad one. Things were too complicated. People could get hurt. They could get hurt. 

“Hey,” Mickey said as he stepped back into the kitchen, lip pinched between his teeth again. He was nervous, clearly, and Ian cringed internally, knowing that he was the reason for it. 

“Yev okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, just a nightmare. Happens sometimes...” 

Ian nodded. “Right. So, uh, I’m gonna head out.” 

“You don’t have to...” 

“Nah, it’s getting late. I should-,” Ian insisted, thumbing towards the door. “I’ll see you around, Mickey.” 

“Yeah. Okay,” was all he got in return, as he let the door fall closed behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "Mom, I want to stay with Ian." 
> 
> "No! It's my birthday, you have to let me, dad!"
> 
> "Did you let him stay here, with our son?"  
> "Relax, it wasn't like that." 
> 
> "The carrot boy will not stay here."


	15. fifteen

Ian found himself holding his breath as he heard the tell-tale sound of Mickey’s shoes echoing into the diner. Was it ridiculous that Ian had paid so much attention to him in the past eight months that he could be certain that it was Mickey, and not Iggy, or Aleksandr, or anyone else - even though most of them wore damn near identical shoes? Perhaps. 

Since Aleksandr still had Mickey working in the kitchen, they couldn’t very well avoid each other, but god, Ian wished that they could. He felt so bad - it was bad enough that he had kept flirting with Mickey again and again - whether consciously or subconsciously, or even accidentally - when Mickey was clearly - probably - straight. It was even worse that Ian had let himself believe that Mickey felt the same - he had probably been reaching for something behind Ian or something, and Ian had made it out to be a much more deliberate move than it had been. Maybe he had even imagined the hand on his waist. He probably had. 

Guys like Mickey weren’t into men. Ian was lucky that Mickey accepted him enough to let him stick around. 

“Morning,” Ian grunted, only because Mickey was technically his superior, and doing anything other than showing him respect would be far more than frowned upon. Especially on Mickey’s home turf. 

“Hey,” he said back, donning an apron and an incredibly attractive hair net. 

“No more nightmares?” Ian asked, and watched as Mickey’s eyebrows slunk down low. 

“What?” 

“Yevgeny. Did he- did he have any more bad dreams? After... I left.” 

“Oh. No...” The conversation was stunted at best, horrifically awkward at worst. Ian wanted nothing more than to maybe lay his hand on the flat griddle and go home with an injury- something, anything that could get him out of seeing the way Mickey skirted around him and gave him slanted looks from the corner of his eyes. “You get home okay?” Mickey asked eventually, and it almost made Ian jump. He didn’t expect much conversation. 

“Yeah. Of course. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he chuckled nervously, scratching at his left elbow with the opposite hand. 

“Well. Don’t really have a choice, do you?” He sighed. And Ian did too, because no. He really didn’t. 

“Got home okay,” he assured him, just barely above a whisper. It was on his tongue to say something about the previous night - to apologize, or to somehow make sure that Mickey knew that he would never purposefully make him uncomfortable. But any scenarios that he could imagine that leading to - they weren’t good, so he kept his mouth shut, and for the next few hours, the two didn’t exchange many words. The words they did exchange were ones that had to do with the work they were doing. 

“So you play guitar, huh?” Ian asked lamely, about an hour past the lunch rush. He immediately closed his eyes in frustration, happy that he was facing away from Mickey. It was such a stupid thing to say - such a lame, and obvious attempt at conversation. 

“Uh… yeah,” Mickey said, not offering up any more information. Ian could continue asking, but he had a feeling that he would have to tear the information out of Mickey, so he decided not to. 

They didn’t speak again until they were closing up, cleaning the kitchen while Dorothy locked the front door and cleaned the tables. 

“Meeting at ten tomorrow night, man,” Mickey said. “Downstairs.” 

“Oh…” Ian said. “What kind of meeting?” 

“Actually,” Mickey said, thumbing his nose and licking his bottom lip, “I have no idea.” Ian frowned, largely due to Mickey’s mirrored expression. Mickey wasn’t a man that wasn’t in the know. He seemed to always have an answer for everything, always. And him not knowing- it was rarely anything good. 

“Should I be worried?”

“Don’t think so,” Mickey shrugged. “Usually they got a problem with an underling, they tell their superior.” 

“Just had to throw that in there, didn’t you? That you’re my boss.” Ian knocked his shoulder against Mickey’s, feeling just the slightest edge being taken off. 

“Yeah, well. Don’t want you to forget,” Mickey teased, and knocked him back. “But, uh. ‘Spose to be a big one. Lots of people there. Think you probably met everyone at Aleks’ dinner. But. Just so you know.” Ian nodded. He’d just have to deal with it. 

✦✦✦

As Ian made his way down the basement stairs - half an hour before the time Mickey told him, because he was not about to be late - he found himself wishing that he and Mickey had been on better terms when this meeting had come up. Sure, he had been running with Mickey and his family for months now, but he still didn’t feel accepted, or comfortable - which made sense, he supposed. But he did feel a lot less eyes were on him when he walked in as Mikhailo’s adopted puppy, rather than the random red headed Irishman. 

There were already a few soldiers down there - Ian could tell by now which ones were soldiers and which ones were higher; he could see the difference in the quality of their suspenders, and the shine of their monks. Which reminded him that he really needed to buy some more clothes for himself. He still hadn’t gotten Mickey to tell him the best place to go for those kinds of things. And though he was making more money now, he would still have to plan ahead and save up a little bit of it, because most of it was going towards overdue bills, and food for the family. 

Ian waited for nearly forty minutes before the rest of the caporegimes and the two underbosses came down from the diner. Ian gave Mickey a respectful nod, as did the couple of soldiers. Some of the capos acknowledged their soldiers, but Mickey was not one of them. Instead, he stayed by the stairs, his hands tucked into his pockets, back straight - to anyone else, he would look confident; in control. Ian, though, could see the way that he was chewing the inside of his lip, the way that his forehead was developing creases. A part of Ian wanted nothing more than to walk over and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but he doubted that he would get a positive response. Instead, he did nothing. 

It wasn’t a terribly long while after, but long enough for Ian to yearn for a chair to fall into, that Terry and Aleksandr shuffled down the stairs. Terry, impassive and stern- hard glare in his eyes, offering no one even a second glance. Aleksandr, on the other hand, greeted both the higher ups and the low-downs equally. Kissing cheeks and offering warm welcomes, and it was hard not to notice that the two men, both vastly different from one another, instilled in Mickey; creating one man with two different faces. 

“Ian,” Aleks smiled when he reached him, cupping both of his cheeks in the same customary way he always tended to, though this time the touch was far gentler than he’d previously shown. “I’m so glad that you could make it.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ian smiled back, if a little uncomfortable, clapping his hands over Aleks’. 

“That’s good to hear. We need more loyal men, Mikhailo especially. I hope you continue to show him the same respect for years to come.” 

Ian nodded, stunned into silence, confused and worried and a myriad of other emotions. Before he could process them, though, Aleks had moved on to the next person, leaving a clear view of Mickey staring back at him. They stayed that way, looking at each other from across the room, neither one making a move to go to the other, until the meeting was finally called to a conference room that Ian had yet to see. 

“C’mon, Fish,” Mickey mumbled, walking past him briskly as he went. It was ridiculous how Ian immediately followed him; as if he were a… well, as if he were a puppy. Mickey might as well have patted his thigh, and said ‘ _come on, boy!_ ’. 

The conference room was not all too different from what Ian had been expecting - no windows, of course, with it being in a basement - wood paneling along the walls; one long, wooden table that all members immediately took a seat at, some of the chairs creaking. Mostly, the capos were seated closer to the head of the table - close to Aleksandr - and the soldiers were further away. Ian ended up sitting with only Mickey separating them, and if Ian didn’t know better, he would think that Mickey had made it that way on purpose. That he had known that Ian would follow him if he acknowledged him. That he was nervous, and he wanted Ian by his side. If Ian didn’t know better. 

“ця зустріч не радість.” Aleksandr began to speak, his tone flat, and matter-of-factly. “знав, що це прийде врешті. Я сподівався, що це пройде ще кілька десятиліть.” 

Ian was not _completely_ useless when it came to Ukrainian - but he was still pretty much useless compared to the room full of fluent speakers. He could recognize a few words - “Я” was “I”, “ця” was “this”, “знав” was “I knew” but all he could do was try to recognize those few words, and watch Mickey’s face for his reaction to try and piece together what Aleksandr was saying. 

“У мене рак. в легенях. наступного року я буду мертвим.” It seemed the entire room took a breath, and when Ian looked to Mickey, he saw an expression upon his face that he had never quite seen before. Ian didn’t know what Aleks was saying, but it was serious. He could gauge that much. “For those of you in here who are still practicing your Ukrainian,” Aleksandr continued, and Ian wanted to sink into the earth, because he knew that he was the only one - everyone knew that he was the only one. “I have cancer,” Aleksandr said. “It’s in the lungs. Come next year, I won’t be here, and I need the family to prepare for that.” 

The meeting wasn’t over there - Aleksandr said a lot more - some of it was in English, some of it in Ukrainian, but Ian wasn’t quite listening. He spent the rest of the time struggling not to look to Mickey, who was staring down into the wooden surface of the table, clearly fighting to keep his tears at bay, All Ian wanted to do was to reach over and hug him, but he knew that he couldn’t - certainly not around other people, and most likely not at all - so he stayed still, heart aching for several reasons. 

“I sincerely appreciate you all coming,” Aleksandr finally said, after what must have been nearly an hour. Or perhaps merely a minute; Ian couldn’t tell. The only thing he could see clearly was the way Mickey’s jaw was clenched and the way his throat flexed again and again as he swallowed something down - whether it be tears or anger, or anything else. “Terentius has some things that he’d like to say I believe,” Aleks concluded, before excusing himself to what Ian assumed was his usual office. 

“Gonna be a lot of changes,” Terry told them, not even waiting until Aleks’ had closed the door behind himself. “You boys are gonna have to shape the fuck up. Lots of shit slipped through the cracks on his watch. It won’t anymore.” Mickey didn’t look sad any longer. He went from forlorn to beet red as Terry spoke, clenching and unclenching his fists beneath the table. Ian hadn’t seen Terry often in the time he’d known the family, but it never came across as a loving father and son relationship. “You’re dismissed,” Terry grunted, and Mickey didn’t even wait for the words to be out of his mouth before he was shooting up from the table and storming to Aleks’ office. He didn’t pause to knock before he was disappearing through the heavy mahogany doors.

If Ian had had his way, he would have stayed right outside of Aleksandr’s office, so that he could see Mickey when he came back, but everyone else filed out, and Ian could feel Terry’s eyes upon him, so he did the same. He did, however, stay at the end of the staircase; he knew that he and Mickey were not on the best terms at the moment, but he also knew what it was like to lose someone before you were meant to - even if your relationship with said person was complicated, and perhaps even more bad times than good times. It didn’t mean that it wasn’t difficult, and Ian couldn’t possibly just go on with his day without making sure that Mickey was still standing on two legs. 

Ten minutes passed, and then twenty; eventually, Ian was completely alone in the room. Finally, Mickey walked in - Aleksandr by his side, his arm around his neck, as he whispered something to Mickey in Ukrainian. Something about the sight reminded Ian of when he had been a child, and Lip or Fiona had comforted him after a nightmare; had told him that everything was going to be okay. Or after Frank’s passing, when they were struggling - more so than they were these days - and they hadn’t known whether things were going to be okay, but they had told him so anyway. Because the last thing they had wanted had been for him to worry about things that he couldn’t control. 

Aleksandr spotted him first, as Mickey was looking down at the floor. Ian straightened up, and Aleksandr stopped walking to whisper something to Mickey - it was in Ukrainian, but Ian caught the words ‘ _someone_ ’ and ‘ _waiting_ ’. Mickey looked up, confused, until their eyes met. Ian’s heart broke at the flushed color surrounding the blue. 

Mickey sighed, and pushed Aleks’ arm off of him. Ian frowned, detesting the idea that Mickey thought he would judge him for being comforted by a family member in a situation like this one. Mickey mumbled something to Aleksandr, and then he headed for the staircase - he wasn't running, but he was certainly moving fast enough that he was hoping Ian wouldn’t manage to catch up. Unfortunately - for him - Ian’s legs were a lot longer than Mickey’s, so he caught him outside of the diner, just as he was unlocking his car, clearly fighting back more tears. 

“Mickey - “

“Leave me alone, Gallagher,” he warned, but his voice broke, and the next thing Ian knew, he was ripping the keys out of his hand. “What the fuck, Fish?!” 

“You are not driving like this,” Ian told him. It was not a question, it was not something that he would allow Mickey to argue with him about. It seemed as if Mickey realized that, too. 

“Fine. You fucking drive, then you leave. You hear me?” At that Ian sighed, knowing that he needed to gear up for a fight- maybe even a physical one. He’d been in Mickey’s shoes once upon a time, had grown up showing his pain by causing more of it. If Mickey needed a punching bag, physically or otherwise- he’d do it. Whatever Mickey needed. He’d do it. 

The drive was quiet, save for a hushed sniffle every now and then, cleverly disguised as a cough or a shuffle. Ian wasn’t stupid though, and he’d have liked to think that he knew Mickey well enough to recognize his tells. 

“Thanks. Bye,” Mickey grunted when Ian pulled into his driveway, springing from the car as if it were on fire and booking it to his front door. Ian caught up to him just as he was pulling his key from the lock and stepping inside. He gave Ian a fleeting glance before moving to shut the door, but Ian had expected it, and jammed his foot in the way before the door could click in place. “You need to leave,” Mickey told him, attempting to shut him out- in every sense of the word- but Ian wouldn’t allow it. 

“Probably should. But I’m not,” Ian insisted, shouldering his way inside and letting the door slam behind him. 

“Gallagher. Listen to me-,” 

“No, you listen to me for once, asshole,” Ian argued. “Just, shut up, Mickey. Okay? Just shut up. I’m not leaving. I’m not. So you’re just gonna have to deal with it.” Mickey sank back against the wall, running his hands over his face and through his hair. Over and over, gripping at himself like he could pull the answer to all of his problems right from his brain. Ian let him have his moment, choosing to stay silent and let him process. 

“I just need...” Mickey whispered, but didn’t say anything else. 

“You need what? Whatever it is, just tell me and I’ll make it happen, okay?” Ian knew that he couldn’t promise that - he didn’t have magical powers, he couldn’t heal Aleksandr, or make sure that Mickey didn’t have to lose him - but he did know that he would do everything in his power to make Mickey feel better. Whatever it took. 

Mickey looked down at the floor; Ian saw his neck moving as he swallowed, most likely fighting back more tears. Then he looked up, sad blue eyes searching Ian’s. Ian tilted his head slightly to the side, hoping that Mickey could see it. That he could see how much Ian cared, that he could see the way his heart was being torn apart at the sight of him crying. That he could see how much Ian… that he could see just how much Ian would _fight_ , how much Ian was willing to _lose_ , himself - as long as it meant that Mickey didn’t have to. 

“I need…” Mickey tried again, this time taking a step or two away from the wall. 

“What?” Ian questioned, his voice awfully soft now; merely a whisper. Mickey looked away from Ian once again, his eyes drifting down to the polished, wooden floorboards as he took another step closer. Then he looked up, and Ian knew his answer. He didn’t say it out loud, but Ian knew what he needed; it was the reason that he hadn’t been kicked out despite Mickey absolutely having the ability to do so, had he truly wanted him gone. Ian couldn’t help himself - the pain in Mickey’s eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling - carefully, Ian brought his hands up, fingertips softly grazing Mickey’s cheeks before he settled a soft grip around his face. His thumbs brushed his chin, and he could see the sad eyes wandering across his features, before returning to his own. 

Ian didn’t have much time to react; mostly because he hadn’t been expecting it. Not that he was sure what he _had_ been expecting, but he _hadn’t_ been expecting the feeling of Mickey’s lips against his own. He hadn’t been expecting Mickey’s soft, cool, and tear-damp cheek against the tip of his nose. He hadn’t been expecting the slight taste of cigarettes as Mickey’s bottom lip settled in between his own. 

Ian leaned into it for too long - a second or two, perhaps. For a second or two, he let himself stand there, keeping the gentle grip around Mickey’s face, his eyes falling shut. He let himself feel his chest - not housing exploding fireworks, or butterflies, but rather a calm. Calm like the sea after a storm. The feeling of ‘ _Oh. Thank god. Finally. I can relax now. This is the way things are supposed to be._ ’ 

Then the taste of cigarettes was cut with a hint of salty tears, and Ian forced himself to break the kiss, his thumbs pressing against Mickey’s chin, bringing him back. 

“No,” Ian shook his head. “We’re not doing this.” For a split second, Mickey seemed hurt, but then his expression changed to something much more familiar to Ian - anger. “No, no, no - “ Ian was quick to repeat before Mickey could curse him out, or worse - throw him out. He refined his grip around Mickey’s face, but kept it soft, as he dipped his own closer. “I want to - we are absolutely doing this… but not tonight. You’re upset, Mick. You’re upset, and all I wanna do is make you feel better-”

“Then shut the fuck up and-”

“No,” Ian shook his head, putting a stop to Mickey’s attempt at closing the distance between them again. “Come here,” he said instead, letting go of his face in order to pull a struggling Mickey into his arms, resting his chin on top of his head. 

"Not doing this faggy shit," Mickey protested, pushing against Ian's chest, but Ian only tightened his grip and pulled him back, slotting him snuggly in his arms. 

"As opposed to faggy shit like kissing," he chuckled, though he wasn't entirely amused. Mickey pushed against him again, and this time Ian let him go. Mickey took a few steps back, hiding his face behind his hands- something he did more than frequently, but Ian didn't say anything about it. Instead, he stood back and let him just... feel. 

"Fuck you, Ian. I don't want- I don't want that. Any of that. And fuck you for making me... for making me..." he held his hands out to the side, wide and full and... angry. 

"Don't want what, Mick? Me? That's fine. You don't have to have me. But I'm gonna be here anyway." 

"No, you're not. You're gonna leave, and if you breathe a word about what you think you know, I'm gonna cut your fingers off one by one and feed 'em to you," Mickey breathed, looking like he believed every word he said. But Ian didn't care. 

"Okay. You do that," Ian said, making his way to Mickey's couch and settling into a plush cushion. 

"Fuck are you doing? Get out!"

"I'm waiting for you to stop fighting with me," Ian shrugged. "Because I care about you, and I'm going to be here whether you want me to or not. I'll stay down here and you can go up there," he said, pointing toward the ceiling. "But I know you, and I know you don't actually want me to leave. So I'm not." 

"I just need some time," Mickey mumbled, finally seeming to lose his steam. 

"I get that. Go on up. I'll be down here," Ian nodded sympathetically, hoping he could convey with his eyes that he meant every word of it. Mickey only gave him a short nod, thumb tracing over his right eyebrow before taking the stairs and slamming his bedroom door behind him. 

Ian sighed, laying out on the couch, eyes cast toward the ceiling as if he could see Mickey through the floorboards; imagined him laying in bed and letting his tears fall freely. He wished he could go up. Make Mickey let him hold him. Make Mickey talk to him. Something. Anything. But he couldn’t, and he didn’t. Instead, he let himself drift off to sleep, still fully clothed and with the living room light shining over his eyes. 

Some time later- long enough for a dream and a half to roll past his eyelids- Ian’s eyes shot open, blearily taking in the same ceiling he’d fallen asleep to. Only this time, he wasn’t alone. Scooting up next to him was Mickey, dressed in a pair of plain red pajama pants and a white t-shirt. Ian didn’t say anything, not at first. Instead, he rolled to his side to offer up more space, and draped his arm over Mickey’s mid section once he was settled. He let his thumb trace over the fabric of Mickey’s shirt, too afraid to move much else, but unable to lay completely still. It went on that way, just the steady rhythm of breathing and softly beating hearts, for what felt like a good while. Ian could feel his eyelids drooling down heavily again, and he tried to fight it, but he couldn’t, it was a losing battle, until Mickey finally spoke. 

“Aleks is like a dad to me. Better than Terry. He, uh, there’s a lot that he knows about me that other people don’t.” 

“Oh,” was all Ian could think to say. He knew perfectly well what Mickey was referring to, clear as day now that Mickey was wrapped up on a couch, laying his head on a freckled arm that wasn’t his own, but still, the admission caught him off guard. 

“He doesn’t care about it. Loves me...” his voice broke. “Loves me anyway.” Ian swallowed, eyes closed as he tightened his grip around Mickey - not too much; not nearly as much as he would have liked to. He would have liked to pull him against his own chest with all the might in his muscles, and he would have liked to hold him there for the foreseeable future. Perhaps longer. Instead, he settled for pulling him just slightly tighter, and softly, he rested the bottom half of his face in the crook where Mickey’s neck became his shoulder. Mickey didn’t fight him. “Know he’s not like… an angel or some shit - fuck, maybe I’m fucking stupid for even…” Mickey sniffled quietly, but Ian could tell that he was trying not to. Carefully, Ian moved his hand to lay on top of Mickeys, slowly starting to move his thumb back and forth across the soft skin, hoping that the motion would soothe him. 

“Not stupid,” Ian mumbled into his neck. “Fuck anyone who thinks so,” he added, then. Mickey didn’t say anything to that, but Ian thought that he felt him relax in his arms. 

✦✦✦

Ian missed him. Not in a ' _oh I need him by my side every minute of everyday_ ,' kind of missed him. Although, that wasn’t exactly out of the question. No. He missed him in a, ' _I’m lonely here without my friend_ ,' sort of way.

It had been nearly a week since Ian had last seen Mickey. A week since he’d woken up, alone, on Mickey’s couch with a note left on the coffee table telling him that Mickey had things to do, places to be. A week since Mickey had been relieved of kitchen duty, and Ian was left alone with just the waffles and the greasy splatter that left his clothes stained. He worked robotically, never putting in more brain power than was necessary, and even then, it was minimal at best. He really only had to pay attention when someone came around to tell him that they had allergies, and he had to put on a professional face. 

By the time that Ian made it back home, he was always exhausted - more so than usual. One day, he simply walked into the Gallagher house, and sank down onto the couch, leaned his head back, and let his eyes fall shut.

“There’s a plate of food in the fridge.” Ian wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there when Fiona’s soft voice cut through the living room, but he had a feeling he may have dozed off for a minute or two. “Rough day?”

“Uh…” A low noise left Ian’s throat as he opened his eyes. “No more than usual,” he shrugged. It was true - technically, the diner hadn’t been any more busy in the past week and a half than it was before. He hadn’t had any more things to do. But his brain had been so preoccupied - shoved full of thoughts of Mickey - about the two of them, about Aleksandr, about how to make him feel better, about what would happen after Aleksandr’s passing - Terry would take over, that seemed clear. And Ian knew that that wouldn’t be a positive change. 

“So what’s going on, huh?” Fiona questioned, taking her place next to Ian, leaning her temple against her palm. Ian looked at her; he shouldn’t tell her everything - so much of it was not his to tell. So instead he settled for a vague question. 

“When Frank… Fi, how’d you get us all through it? What did you do to make us… feel like things were gonna be okay?”

“You think I did anything?” She snorted, looking just as bewildered as Ian felt. “I didn’t. I was a mess, don’t you remember? I stayed up for, god, I don’t remember how long. Just crying. Crying every night. Worrying- about me. About all of you. Didn’t know what to do.” 

Ian sat quietly and listened. Her version of events wasn’t at all as he remembered. He remembered her being tough and strong and so sure of herself. She handled Frank’s service and the kids- all far younger, and far more scared. 

“Didn’t seem like that to me,” he told her honestly. “Seemed like you had a good handle on it.” 

“Maybe outwardly,” she shrugged. “I don’t think I said any magic words to make it all better. I think I just… let you all grieve. With a little assistance, I guess. Where’s this all coming from?”

Ian let out a breath through his mouth as he rubbed his sweaty palms against the wool of his trousers. Leaning back against the couch, he began to talk, and as he did, the sadness grew stronger, though he wasn’t sure if it was for Aleksandr or for Mickey. 

“Mickey’s uncle… he uh, he’s not gonna be around much longer. He’s sick. He’s real sick. And Mickey… he’s not taking it well. More of a dad than an uncle, I guess,” he said, a deep frown weighing his lips down. 

“You really care about him, huh?” Her hand lifted the strand of hair that fell against his forehead, tucking it back in place gingerly, a kind but sorrowful smile looking down at him. 

“Yeah. I do.” She nodded and gave another shrug.

“Sounds to me like you just need to give him some time. Be there for him. Listen to him. Don’t try to make him feel better, because you can’t. But you can help him carry some of the weight.” 

“How…” Ian started, looking down to the floor. “How do I do that?” He asked, finally looking up at his sister, who tilted her head to the side, like a dog who heard a whistle. Her bottom lip protruded slightly as shallow creases developed in her forehead, silence hanging between them while she seemed to think of an answer. “How do I… I mean… how do I know when he wants to be alone, and when he says he wants to be alone because he’s a stubborn piece of shit?” 

Fiona smiled gently, shrugging. 

“I don’t have an answer to that one, monkey,” she admitted. “But… I will tell you that even when any of you told me you wanted to be alone… I don’t think you really did. Sure, maybe you needed five minutes alone, and sometimes maybe you preferred me sleeping on your bedroom floor instead of holding onto you - but… I don’t think being completely alone… is a way for anybody to get through something like this. Not really…” Ian took a beat to process her words, and then he looked up at her. 

“I think I got somewhere I need to be.” 

Fiona wrapped his plate of food up in foil, and forced him to bring it, and then he left, promising her that he would drive safe.

It didn’t take very long before Ian was parked outside of Mickey’s house, and he shut the car off, leaning back against his seat. Perhaps he shouldn’t be here. But it had been over a week - he couldn’t bear not seeing Mickey - partly because he was selfish, but also because he despised the thought of Mickey being by himself, crying, with no one to comfort him. Aleksandr, perhaps - and Ian wasn’t sure how close Mickey was with Iggy, but… Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that Mickey needed Ian. Perhaps he didn’t want him - but something about the look in his eyes that night… the memory helped Ian out of the car, and towards the front door; helped him lift his hand up and knock lightly. No answer. One more knock. 

“Что это за шум,” the annoyed female voice reached Ian’s ears as soon as the door opened, revealing Svetlana. 

“Oh,” Ian said, feeling his heart sink ever so slightly with disappointment. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting… something,” he said, looking over her shoulder to see Mickey, leaned back in one of the sofa chairs. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone - not as if they had been up to anything, but more as if he had been confiding in her, and his throat had felt thick - as if he had been so sad he hadn’t been able to breathe. His eyes were slightly irritated - not as if he had been sobbing, but Ian figured that the various kinds of alcohol on the coffee table were the reason he had been able to keep from it. 

“Я сказав вам, що вам потрібно зателефонувати своєму цуценяті, інакше він з’явиться,” Svetlana turned to Mickey, who waved her off. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He got up, stumbling the slightest bit on his way over to the door. “Fuck you doing here, Fish?” Mickey slurred out, voice tired and ragged and just so... defeated. He didn’t sound mad, but he didn’t sound happy to see Ian, either. It was more a resigned sigh, like he knew Ian’s presence was an inevitability, but one he didn’t necessarily crave. 

“Came to check on you. And uh, my sister sent food, so. Here,” he mumbled, pushing the foil covered plate into Mickey’s hands. “But I see your family is here, so I’ll,” he said and thumbed back toward his car. 

“You don’t have to... scram, or whatever. Want a drink? Got plenty.” Mickey left the door open as he swayed on his way back to the couch, dropping down heavily and tearing open his meal. Ian stayed at the door for longer than just a beat, but when he caught Svetlana’s gaze and her perfectly arched eyebrow, he made his way through the threshold and shut the door with a soft click. He took a seat far away from Mickey, trying the whole, ‘be there, but with space,’ approach, hoping it would be the right cocktail of support for Mickey, as stubborn as he was. 

“Where’s Yevy?” Ian asked, looking around and fully expecting to hear his name being shouted and a little body being launched into his lap. 

“My Yevgeny is with family. Cannot see father this way,” Svetlana told him, hard stare still in place. 

“Fuck that,” Mickey piped up around a mouth full of country fried steak. “Could’a came. Nothing he ain’t seen before.” 

Svetlana rolled her eyes and sighed, staring at Mickey as he munched through his food noisily, grunting out appreciation for the taste. 

“How long has he been like this?” Ian asked, and shrugged his shoulders when Mickey sent him a glare. 

“Long enough,” Svetlana said. “You will take care of him now, orange boy? I take break from... this?” 

“Oh, I... uh, sure. You okay with that, Mick?” 

“Nope,” Mickey burped, and shook his head; though it didn’t have any real conviction. 

“He will be fine. You stay. I go,” she demanded, standing up and gathering her things. “ти добрий. я привезу Євгена, щоб побачитись завтра.” She kissed his cheek, even as he pushed her away and clicked her heels toward Ian. “Walk me out to my car.” 

Ian felt strange, walking with her, but it was the gentlemanly thing to do, he supposed. She walked quickly, faster than even Mickey, and he followed her, even going as far as opening the car door for her, and giving her a tight smile. 

“He cares for you,” she said, staring into his soul. “He is not well, so you must care for him, too.” Ian swallowed and nodded.

“I do. I will. I do.” 

“Good. Yevgeny will be here tomorrow. Does not need to see father or house like that. Clean them both.” And just like that, she was in the driver’s seat and starting her engine. Ian stayed there for a beat or two, watching her car disappear down the street, before he turned back around to walk into the house. 

Mickey sat on the couch, still shoving his mouth full of food; Ian found himself wondering whether he had eaten at all in the past few days, or if he was running on alcohol and possibly caffeine. He looked up at Ian, sending a glare his way - not one that necessarily told him to get the fuck out, but more-so one that said ‘ _Oh. Right. You’re here_.’

“Don’t gotta stay, man - Svet’s dramatic,” he mumbled, mouth still half-full. Ian rolled his eyes, and went over to the couch - he considered taking a seat in one of the chairs, but at the last second, he told himself not to be such a pussy, and he sank down next to Mickey - not too close, not so close that he would think that he was trying anything, or invading his space - but enough to say ‘ _Yeah. I’m here._ ’ 

“You can drop that act. We both know it’s not gonna work,” Ian mumbled, quite matter-of-factly. Mickey paused, slightly bent over the plate in his lap, his eyes wandering over to Ian’s knee, before he shrugged, continuing to shove the food in his mouth. Ian was quite sure that Fiona had meant for the plate to feed two people - or one person twice - but he was more than happy to see Mickey doing something other than drinking. 

For a moment, Ian looked at Mickey, unsure of what to do. He knew what he wanted to do - he wanted to ask him if he was okay - but he knew the answer, and the fact that it was a complete lie. He wanted to hug him, but he had a feeling that Mickey wasn’t in the mood. He wanted to tell him that everything was going to be alright, but he couldn’t promise that. In the end, he settled on reaching over, and stealing the last homemade french fry off of the plate. 

“Hey - “ Mickey barked, bringing a hand up into the air, as if he was ready to slap Ian across the face. The look on his face soon seemed to struggle to stay locked in a frown, though, because Ian was completely unaffected, tipping his head back, throwing the fry up and catching it in his mouth. When he brought his head back up, he chewed nonchalantly, and Mickey rolled his eyes, turning back to place the empty plate onto the coffee table. “Jackass,” he mumbled, but Ian could see the amusement tugging at the edges of his lips. “Want a drink?” He asked, then, and Ian parted his lips to accept - it was a reflex. Not just when Mickey asked - but when anyone asked a young man like Ian whether he wanted to have a drink, he was expected to say yes. But looking at Mickey - the wrinkled, stained, white t-shirt, the unstyled hair, the flushed cheeks - whether they were flushed from the alcohol, or the crying, Ian didn’t know - but his best bet was both; and then looking at the table already littered with bottles and glasses, Ian found himself sighing. 

“How long since you showered, Mick?” Mickey scoffed.

“Fuck off, Jesus Christ. Why are you even here? No one fucking called for you.” 

“Here ‘cause I wanna be,” Ian shrugged, casual as ever as he leaned back against the cushions. 

“Here ‘cause you wanna be. Funny.” 

“I wanna be where you are, Mickey.” The words left his mouth before he could even take a second to think them over- to really internalize them and realize that they may come with repercussions. 

“Well, you don’t get to be. Just go.” The plate was empty, and it was good that he ate, but the moment he had put it on the table, his hand was back around a bottle of amber colored poison, and he was downing his sorrows swig by swig. 

“I’m not going, tough guy. So you gonna let me get your stinky ass in the shower or you gonna make me carry you?” 

“Touch me and I’ll break every single one of your fingers. Mean it, Ian.” 

“I mean it too, Mikhailo. Told you before, I’ll tell you again. I’m not scared of you. Not anymore... little spoon.” 

Mickey tried - Ian could tell - to glare at him. To send him to hell with a single look. But his mouth betrayed him by twitching upward, if only for a millisecond. He wiped it away quickly and replaced it with a scowl, but it was too late. The damage was done. Ian had won, and he wouldn’t take any steps back in his progress. Not again. 

“Now, you go up and fucking,” he wrinkled his nose and swished his hand through the air, “wash and change. And when you come back, I’ll have a drink with you.”

Mickey looked at him, seemingly considering whether it was worth it. Then he stood up, mumbled something under his breath that Ian didn’t quite catch, while heading for the stairs. Ian took it as a win, and with the muffled sound of the shower as background noise, he began to clean the living room. 

He cleared the various bottles, glasses, and the occasional bag of fast food that someone must have brought Mickey. He even found a mop, and quickly got rid of the few weeks of dust that coated the living room floor. When he had started, it hadn’t looked bad at all, only some small things that needed to be cleared - but when he was done, it was quite a big difference anyway. He wasn’t sure if it would make Mickey feel better - he didn’t know if it would have made him feel better, had he been Mickey - but he didn’t know what else to do. 

“I tell you you could clean my place?” Ian hadn’t heard Mickey coming down the stairs, so the voice caused him to jump slightly, nearly dropping the blanket that he was busy folding. He gathered himself quite quickly, and without turning around, he hung the perfectly folded blanket over the back of the couch, a slight chuckle coming from his throat. 

“Not at work, you can’t tell me what to do.” Mickey made a sound somewhere between a hum and a grunt, and Ian turned around, crossing his arms over his chest. He could tell that Mickey was trying his hardest to appear tough - or at the very least indifferent - he had his arms crossed as well, face neutral - but he wasn’t fooling Ian; especially not dressed in blue plaid pajama pants, and long sleeved white shirt. He was far from Mickey Milkovich, the Ukrainian criminal. Ian saw Mikhailo; the man. 

“You just gonna stand there staring at me, or you gonna make good on your promise?” Mickey asked just as Ian’s mouth started to go dry. His damp hair was spiked and unkempt, clearly from a towel being run over it haphazardly, and the way he looked so comfortable and just... _at home_ , made Ian a little wild. 

“Which one?” He didn’t have time to think twice and bite his tongue before Mickey’s laugh echoed off the walls and bounced around in Ian’s brain. He found that it was a great relief 

“The one where you get shit faced with me, wise guy.” 

“Ah, but see,” Ian tisked, already moving to follow Mickey toward the couch. “I only promised a drink. Not to get topheavy.” 

“Ian, I’m in mourning. You gonna make me do it alone?” His voice had something laced up in it, something small and sad and... just, needy. 

“Already told you I’m not gonna leave you. But I’ll promise it again. No matter how mad you get at me. I’ll be here.” Mickey bit at his lip, looking to the floor for a long, quiet moment before he finally nodded and picked up the glass bottle. 

“Okay. I get it. So, uh, you gonna keep being a pussy or you gonna drink?” Ian took the bottle from him, and brought it to his lips for a swing. He swallowed the whiskey down with a wince, and then looked at Mickey. 

“Happy?” 

“Dramatic piece of shit,” Mickey mumbled, with an eye roll. He stole the bottle back, and took a swing himself, while throwing himself back into the couch. When he brought the bottle back down, all amusement seemed to be gone from his features. He was staring at the coffee table, his jaw locking and unlocking; Ian didn’t doubt that whatever he was thinking was dark. So he sighed, and took the spot next to him on the couch. 

They passed the bottle back and forth a few more times, in silence; Mickey didn’t look at him, rather he seemed completely absorbed in his own thoughts - whatever they were. A few times, Ian parted his lips - to tell Mickey about Frank, or to ask him what he needed of him - but none of it would help, and he knew that. So in the end, when he noticed a single, lone tear make its way down Mickey’s cheek - one he had most likely been fighting for a while now - he said nothing. 

Instead he let Mickey cradle the bottle of booze, as he tentatively brought his arm around his shoulders, his fingers running through damp, black strands, as he softly brought Mickey closer until he could press his lips against his temple. 

“The fuck you doing?” Mickey mumbled the question. Though he wasn’t fighting it. Not at all. Not even a little. 

“Think the kids these days are calling it, ‘cuddling.’ You ever heard of it?” 

“Fuck off, man,” Mickey murmured, but settled in heavily against Ian’s side, resting his head on Ian’s shoulder, leaving a dampened patch against his shirt, but he didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for a small bit of intimacy, and Ian would have paid any amount for it. 

“You’re gonna have to learn some new words if you wanna scare me off,” Ian told him, lips moving against Mickey’s hairline. 

Mickey hummed, but didn’t say anything else. Instead, it seemed he finally calmed down enough to let himself breathe deeply and evenly, and for a moment Ian thought maybe he fell asleep. He would have been content to spend the whole night there like that, an imitation of the week before, but as all good things do, the moment ended when Mickey stirred and sat upright. 

“Yevgeny’s coming tomorrow. Can’t let him find us like that,” Mickey said softly, in what Ian guessed was a response to his disappointed face. 

“Okay. You go on up and get to bed. I’ll be fine down here.” 

“Or maybe...” Mickey gripped at the back of his neck and bit at his lip, looking nervous as he ever had. “Maybe you could like, sleep up there with me. I don’t know. That’s pretty gay...” Mickey seemed to be having a two sided conversation with himself, and Ian couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, I don’t know, that’s a little too far for me, Mick.” Ian teased, trying his absolute best to sound convincing. Of course, he couldn’t help but crack a smile, and Mickey rolled his eyes, heading for the staircase. 

“Fuck you, man. Turn the lights off before you come up.” He waved him off, disappearing around the corner on the second floor. Ian had the cheesiest grin on his face as he flipped the switch, and double checked that the door was locked; he headed up the staircase, and when he reached the doorway of Mickey’s bedroom, his smile slowly dropped. 

He should have liked the sight - Mickey in the bed, turned away from him - clearly his way of asking Ian to be the big spoon without having to actually ask - maybe someday, Ian would tease him about it, but not tonight. And yes - a part of him did like the sight. Another part of him didn’t - because he didn’t like to think about how many nights Mickey had spent like this, alone, clearly upset - and Ian hadn’t been there. Ian hadn’t been there to slowly make his way over to the bed, hadn’t been there to lift the covers up and scooch his way closer, and closer, until his chest was firmly pressed against Mickey’s back. Hadn’t been there to feel the way in which Mickey’s body seemed to relax with the touch - whether he would ever have admitted it or not. Hadn’t been there to lightly brush his thumb across the back of his hand. 

Hadn’t been there to press a tentative kiss to his shoulder. Hadn’t been there to feel Mickey’s thumb reach for his own in a silent ‘ _thank you_ ’. 

They laid there for a while - long enough that Ian was decently sure of the fact that Mickey was asleep - and he didn’t blame him. This felt pretty good. _Them. They_ felt good. Better than good, actually. 

“‘S not just Aleks…” Mickey admitted into the darkness. His voice sounded rough, but Ian couldn't tell if it was because he was tired, or because he had been crying. Ian hummed in question, gently squeezing his hand in reassurance. “I mean… starts there, I guess. But it’s not just… not just that I’m gonna miss him. It’s also that… fuck…” Mickey interrupted himself with a rough sniffle, seemingly annoyed with his own emotions. 

“Turn around,” Ian demanded softly, before he could think better of it, and he placed a gentle hand to Mickey’s shoulder. He had expected him to fight it, but he didn’t. He flipped over easily, staring up into the ceiling, a tear making its way from the outer corner of his eye down to the bed. Ian wiped it away, and then left his hand on the pillow, softly running his fingers through the strands of black hair, thumb occasionally brushing across his temple, or his cheek. “It’s just me,” Ian whispered. “It’s just Fish. Talk to me.” 

Mickey let out a chuckle, but Ian wasn’t sure if it had any amusement in it. It sounded more like a frustrated kind of chuckle, as if he was ready to punch himself in the face. 

“Aleks… he’s… a mediator, I guess…” Mickey explained, eyes still at the ceiling. “Like when Terry gets too much, Aleks just… handles it. Makes everything okay. Now… I mean, fuck…” Mickey cursed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. 

“There’s gotta be something, right? Some good in your dad. Maybe it won’t-,”

“Ian,” Mickey stopped him, turning again, though this time it brought their noses close enough for Ian to feel Mickey’s breath. “There isn’t any fucking thing good about him, alright? Yevgeny... Yevgeny’s only here because I couldn’t let my dad think...” 

“Oh.” Ian hadn’t thought much about it. Hadn’t thought of the how’s or the why’s of Mickey having a baby. It made the whiskey burn up at the back of his throat when he finally came to understand that having a kid wasn’t ever really in Mickey’s plans. 

“I love him more than anything. I do. S’a good kid and I’m lucky. But. I didn’t want hi-,” Mickey’s words were choked off, a wet sounding sob taking their place. 

Ian, still for only a moment, snapped out of it and pulled Mickey closer, letting him bury his face in him neck and soak his t-shirt. He let him cry and wail and shake and shiver, all the while Ian held him closer and closer. He rubbed and patted at his back, whispered quiet hushes and soothing words. But in the end, he knew he needed to let him cry it out. 

“You’re a good dad, Mick. It’s okay, it’s okay. Yevy loves you. And you love him. It’s okay,” he whispered over and over. And just when he thought it was over, Mickey said something that sent a chill down his spine and made his blood run cold, because he knew without a doubt that it was the truest thing Mickey had ever said; 

“He’ll kill me if he ever finds out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "This meeting is not one of joy."  
> "I always knew that it would come to this eventually, though I hoped there would be a few more decades."  
> "I have cancer. It's in the lungs. Next year, I'll be dead." 
> 
> "What's all this noise?"  
> "I told you you needed to call your puppy, or he'd show up here." 
> 
> "You're good. I'll bring Yevgeny to see you tomorrow."


	16. sixteen

The first one to wake up the next morning was Ian; at first, he was glad. The annoyance at the tickle in his nose disappeared when he opened his eyes and realized that it was Mickey’s hair. The weight on his full bladder ceased to be as much of a bother when the weight turned out to be Mickey’s entire body - slung over his own, holding onto him in a way he surely wouldn’t have allowed himself to, had he been awake. 

That thought was the one that dampened Ian’s happiness. There was a reason Mickey wouldn’t have allowed himself to. Ian remembered Mickey’s words from the previous night. “ _ He’ll kill me if he finds out _ .”  Ian felt a shot of pain to his chest, and he knew that it came from the thought of… that. Not just the thought of Mickey being gone in such a way, but the mere thought of Mickey being gone. At all. Ian wasn’t so sure that he would be able to handle that. Ever.  He forced the thought to the back of his mind when Mickey began to stir awake. 

“Time’s it?” He mumbled without opening his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Ian admitted. 

“Mmm,” Mickey rumbled, low and throaty. “Kid’s gonna be here soon.” Mickey made a move to roll over and presumably out and away from the privacy and comfort of his stitched quilt, but Ian held firm against his back and didn’t let him raise his chest away from Ian’s. 

“Just another minute,” he pleaded, and while he felt a puff of annoyed air against his chin, Mickey relented and settled back in. “Like holding you.” 

“S’pretty gay, man,” Mickey slurred, relaxed and sleepy and warm and soft. 

“Uh huh. Kinda the point, isn’t it?” 

“Mmm,” Mickey noised again, but otherwise fell silent, nuzzling down into Ian when Ian began to thread his fingers through Mickey’s tangled hair. 

“You want me to beat feet ‘fore Yevy gets here?” He asked, and while he didn’t want to go, not even for a minute; he would. If Mickey asked him to give him a little bit of time to think, to process, he would. But he’d show up again and again the next day and the day after. 

“Prolly should.” Ian’s heart sank down a little, but he did his best not to show his disappointment. “But, Yev finds out you were here and he didn’t get to see you... he’d kill us both.” At that,  Ian chuckled, a little bit of warmth spreading just beneath his skin. 

“I love him.” 

“Yeah. He loves you, too. Maybe even more than me.” 

“Nah,” Ian disagreed, shaking his head and feeling Mickey’s hair brush against his cheek. “Not possible.” It was true - as much as Ian saw the glimmer in Yevgeny’s eyes when he ran up to him, that was nothing compared to the way that he looked at Mickey. “He thinks the world of you.” The next few words lived on the tip of Ian’s tongue for a beat or two before he buried his nose in the black strands and mumbled them. “‘S not the only one.” He pulled Mickey even closer, bracing himself for his muscles to tense up, or for him to ask what the fuck that was supposed to mean; prepared himself to… lose him. Instead, what he got was another lazy grunt from the base of Mickey’s throat, as he seemed to breathe in the scent of Ian’s neck. 

“Not so bad yourself, Fish.” 

Eventually, Mickey managed to elbow his way out of Ian’s grip, but the view of him making his way to the bathroom made Ian realize that it wasn’t so bad. He was still dressed, of course, but something about the way he moved, the way that he carried himself, it had that warmth pooling in Ian’s stomach within seconds. 

By the time that Yevgeny was due to arrive, Ian and Mickey were out of bed, and a scent of coffee spread around the lower story of the house. Ian hardly tried to cover up his amusement as Mickey downed a large cup of black coffee in one go; coffee strong enough that Ian could barely add enough milk to make it palatable. 

“Little hung over there, bud?”  Mickey’s eyebrows went up before his eyes did, raiding to meet Ian’s so that he knew he fully absorbed it when two middle fingers diced through the air.  “You’re cute when you try to be a hard ass,” Ian smirked, proofing his chin against the palm of his hand. 

“You wanna fucking die?” 

Ian laughed, fully and heartily, rising from his belly and filling the kitchen with light and warmth. The corners of Mickey’s lips twitched up as his eyes softened, and Ian knew he’d won. 

“So cute.” 

Mickey didn’t get to say anything else before the sound of the front door banged open, and quick little footsteps pounded against the floor. Yevgeny ran past Ian, apparently not seeing him, and launched himself into Mickey’s arms. 

“Dad!” He screeched, giggling when Mickey poked at his sides and hugged him tight. 

“Ran right past me. I’m wounded, Yevy,” Ian sighed over dramatically. 

“Ian! Dad put me down! Put me down!” Yevgeny squirmed and thrashed in Mickey’s arms, seemingly a never ending supply of unbridled energy. Ian laughed along with the little boy as Yevgeny made himself at home in Ian’s lap, hugging him tight around the neck. “I missed you, Ian!” He proclaimed, cheek pressed tight against Ian’s, contorting both of their faces enough that even Svetlana smiled once the click of her heels made their way in. 

“Orange boy took care of you?” She asked, and Ian took that as his cue to give them a little space. 

“Missed you, too, Buddy. Let’s go in the living room and let mom and dad talk, huh?” He mumbled, standing up with Yevgeny wrapped around him like a little monkey. 

“Are you gonna spend the day with me and dad? Oh, please Ian. Please, spend the day with us!” Yevgeny jumped up and down as well as he could while being carried, letting another few words of pleading out into the air. Ian laughed, sitting down on the sofa, intending to place Yevgeny next to him, but Yevgeny kept holding on to him, frowning. “You’re not answering,” he pointed out, his bottom lip protruding as he banged his little fist against Ian’s shoulder. 

“I got work today, Yevy,” Ian said, regretfully. 

“Dad doesn’t. I thought you worked with my dad.” Yevgeny’s face grew more and more unimpressed and Ian felt the way he tugged on his heartstrings. 

“Your dad’s got a lot more say than I do - I gotta work when I’m supposed to work. He can take a day off.” 

It seemed that Yevgeny was about to continue the conversation, but just then, Mickey and Svetlana came walking out of the kitchen, and she stopped by the front door, calling for Yevgeny - Ian assumed so, at least, he was still struggling with Ukrainian, and he didn’t understand Russian at all.  Yevgeny ran over to her and said goodbye. Once the door closed, he turned to Mickey, as Ian stood up and made his way over to them. 

“I want Ian to spend the day with us but he says he has to work, can you tell him he can take the day off too?” Yevgeny put on his cutest puppy eyes, as he stuck his arms up, signaling for Mickey to carry him. Mickey sighed, obeying the order, and turning to Ian with the boy on his hip. 

“I’m sorry, Yev,” Ian said. “Not much I can do.”

“You ain’t working until this afternoon, you can spend the morning with us,” Mickey surprised Ian by saying. “Or you uh… finally realize he ain’t that special?” He asked with a nod to Yevgeny.  Despite that, Ian had a feeling that ‘ _he_ ’ was not referring to Yevgeny. Mickey was incredibly talented at hiding his insecurities, but Ian was starting to see through him. He wanted nothing more than to pull him close, but it would have to wait. 

“I’m incredibly offended,” Ian said. “He’s very special.” He then turned to Yevgeny. “You’re gonna let him talk about you like that?” He poked Yevgeny’s side. 

“Yeah, dad! I’m inc-incred-ibly offended, too!” Yevgeny wailed, balling up his hands and laying a whack in Mickey’s shoulder. “I’m special! And Ian’s special, too. Right dad?” 

Ian gulped in a lungful of air, his insides twisting almost painfully at the thought of Mickey looking at him... like that. If maybe Mickey thought it too, then... 

“Sure kid,” Mickey said, voice low, eyes never leaving Ian’s. “He’s special.”  Ian didn’t smile, though he felt like maybe he should have. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on Mickey’s, studying the way the light hit his eyes and transformed his usual blue into an ocean of different shades, all merging together into something beautiful and just so... Mickey. 

“I’m hungry,” Yevgeny announced, breaking the tension by just a fraction. “Ian, can you make me some waffles? You said you would! With extra cream! ‘Member, Ian?” 

“Sure, man,” Ian smiled, shaking his head to clear away the fog. “But only if you help me. It’s a lot of heavy lifting. Not sure if I can do it on my own.” 

“I can help! Dad, tell him I can help!” 

“Yevgeny would like for you to know that he can help,” Mickey teased, leaning toward Ian just enough to let his son be taken from his arms. 

“Dad should help too, shouldn’t he, Yevy? Don’t think it’s real fair if we do all the work and he gets all the rewards.” 

“Yeah, dad. You gotta help,” Yevgeny nodded, pointing Ian back toward the kitchen. 

It didn’t take long for Ian to find what he needed, a simple recipe of flours and sugars. He was somewhat surprised that Mickey had a waffle maker, thankful that he didn’t put his foot in his mouth when he promised Yevgeny something he may not have been able to deliver. ' _Kid likes waffles_ ,' Mickey had shrugged when Ian mentioned the kitchenware, and smiled when Mickey plugged it in and greased the iron. 

Ian did good on his promise - he served Yevgeny a tall pile of waffles, swimming in butter and syrup, topped with a mountain of whipped cream - and even a sliced strawberry that he had managed to find in Mickey’s refrigerator. 

“Ian, can you make this for me all the time?” Yevgeny asked as they sat around the kitchen table, his mouth still full of half-chewed food. 

“Chew your food, kid. Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Mickey warned, his mouth just as full as Yevgeny’s. 

“Your mouth is full,” Yevgeny pointed out with a pout. 

“It would be my pleasure to make you waffles all the time,” Ian answered his question, being rewarded the kind of large, pure grin that only children could give. Yevgeny soon went back to eating, and Ian met Mickey’s eyes across the table. He sent him a wink, and Mickey rolled his eyes. 

After the waffles were all gone, Yevgeny ran upstairs, claiming that he  _ had  _ to show Ian a drawing he had made. As he disappeared, Ian looked over at Mickey, who stood by the kitchen island, rinsing the dirty dishes. Something about the way he looked - dressed so casually, hair product-free - Ian couldn’t help but take the opportunity to sneak up behind him, placing his hands onto his hips, letting his lips rest against the crook of his shoulder. 

“Kid’s gonna be back any second, man,” Mickey said. Ian hummed, dropping an actual kiss to his shoulder before he let go, and put distance in between them. 

“Can’t blame me,” Ian said, and before Mickey could answer, Yevgeny came running back into the kitchen. 

“Look, Ian, look!” He jumped up and down so fast that the drawing he was holding up became a blur. Ian finally had to form a gentle grip around his wrist and still him. When the motion stopped, Ian could see the crayon drawing - the three stick figures. They were clearly him, Mickey, and Svetlana, but that wasn’t what brought the smile to Ian’s face. It was the way that he had drawn Mickey - big and strong. 

“What’s that?” Ian asked, as Yevgeny explained what the drawing portrayed.

“That’s my dad’s cape!”

“His cape?” Ian grinned. “He a super hero?” 

“Yeah! He’s, he’s real strong, Ian. He could probably lift up a car if he wanted to, couldn’t you, dad?” 

“Bet not,” Mickey shrugged, at the same time Ian said, “Sure he could.” 

“Gonna give me a big head,” Mickey directed at Ian, and gave him a look of warning when Ian’s left eyebrow inched up, salacious thoughts etched on each of his features.  Ian lifted his shoulder and let it fall, a wicked grin playing at his lips. He wouldn’t take anything further than that, not with a sugared house four year old running around their legs, but he wanted to. Didn’t want anything more. Probably hadn’t ever wanted anything more. 

“Dad! Ian! Can we watch tv? Maybe there’s a cartoon! Maybe Tom and Jerry!” 

Mickey nodded as Ian checked the time, frowning when he realized that his morning was almost over, and soon he’d be thrust back into the real world. One with customers and borrowers and order and chaos all at the same time. And then he realized, maybe he’d never wanted anything more than sitting down and watching a show with Mickey and their- no, _Mickey’s_ little boy.

So that was what they did. Mickey turned on the square box in the corner that the Gallaghers had never been economically stable enough to own. Tom and Jerry wasn’t on, which Yevgeny was upset about - until they found that Looney Tunes was showing, and then he forgot all about it.

For a while, they just sat there - Yevgeny in between Ian and Mickey, completely transfixed on the screen. Meanwhile, Ian stole the occasional glance Mickey’s way. 

Eventually, all good things must come to an end. 

“No, no looking at your watch!” Yevgeny cried out, tugging at Ian’s shirt.

“Kid, you gotta let him go sometimes. He’ll be back,” Mickey promised his son. 

“Do you promise?” Yevgeny asked. 

“Yes,” Ian nodded, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. “Of course I’ll be back, can’t let you face grumpy all by yourself,” he said with a nod Mickey’s way as as stood up from the couch, but Yevgeny stuck his arms up. 

“Hug!” He demanded. 

✦✦✦

Ian clocked in at 2 on the dot, not his usual early timing, but no one could truly say much about it. He’s make up for it on his next shift, he thought, as he looked his apron strings and tied them in a messy little bow and grabbing for his metal spatula. 

His day dragged by slowly. Order after order of burgers and fries flying out of his serving window. Not many people came in to speak about their allergies, but the ones who did, Ian dealt with, with care; the highlight of his day. Where he felt closest to Mickey- joining in his business. 

It was nearing seven o’clock when the swinging door to the kitchen creaked open, and Ian was met with shiny blond hair and two pairs of blue eyes staring at him. 

“Ian!” Yevgeny shouted, wrapping his arms around Ian’s legs. “I’m here now! Me and dad came for dinner!” 

“I see that,” Ian laughed and hugged him back. “Didn’t get enough waffles earlier?” 

“Dad said you make really good burgers. He said we should come.” 

“Oh, it was dad’s idea, huh?” Ian asked, looking at Mickey as he rolled his eyes for being ratted out. 

“Yeah!” 

Ian smiled at him and then changed his smile to more of a smirk as he looked to Mickey once more. Mickey crossed his arms over his chest and did his best to look menacing, but Ian couldn’t see past the tear streaked man curled up against his chest. 

' _Cute_ ,' he mouthed, and was met with another middle finger.  “Whatcha gonna have for supper, kiddo?” Ian turned his attention back to Yevgeny, who looked thoughtful for a moment. 

“Chicken strips. And fries!” 

“Got it. Mick?” 

“Guess I’ll have the same,” he said, ruffling Yevgeny’s hair and sending Ian a brilliant grin before nodding and dragging the kid off to a booth.

It was a semi slow time of the day, past the dinner rush and before the late nighters, so when Ian played up two order of chicken strips and fries, he took them out himself instead of sending it through the window. Yevgeny clapped when Ian sat down next to him, and sunk a fry in his mouth chewing and humming happily. 

“These are so good, Ian. So good! Can you cut up my chicken, please? Really good,” Yevgeny praised through a mouthful of potato. 

“Thanks, Yevy. Yeah, I’ll cut ‘em up.” 

Ian was cutting away at Yevgeny’s chicken, listening to him chirp on about what kind of ice cream sundae he wanted -' _caramel and chocolate, Ian_ '- when a squeaky pair of shoes walked up to the table and stopped. 

“Mikhailo,” a deep voice rumbled. 

“Ivan,” Mickey greeted back, voice cold and hard as he wiped at his mouth with a napkin.  Ian nodded respectfully, as he was taught. He didn’t know the man, but he’d seen him around and knew that he was on par with Mickey. His tailored suit and perfectly sculpted hair would tell him that he was important, even if Ian didn’t already know as much. 

“Don’t remember telling you you could come out of the kitchen,” the man said to Ian, eyes hard and mouth harder. Ian opened his mouth but closed it just as quickly, moving to make his way quickly back to the kitchen to resume his duties, even if he was irritated that his 'family time' was cut short. 

“Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?” Mickey’s voice barked, startling not only Ian, but Yevgeny as well if the jump he gave was any indication. 

“Excuse me?” Ivan asked back, scoffing and looking at Mickey as if he were stepping on his toes. “You’re not here today. So I have to keep everyone-,” 

“Fish is on my crew,” Mickey spat, standing from the booth and pushing his face very near the other man’s. “Don’t ever fucking talk to one of my men like that, you sack of fucking dog shit. You hear me?”  Ian was immediately thrown. This was not like Mickey. He could be aggressive, sure - but he did _not_ have a short temper. Typically, he was the kind of person who bit you only after you were too stupid to back away from his tenth growl.  “You fuckin’ hear me, asswipe?!” Mickey repeated once again, when Ivan didn’t immediately respond. At that point, Ian couldn’t help but stand up, and move to place a hand onto Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Mick, I think you’re overreacting - he wasn’t - “

“I say you could speak?!” Mickey snapped his head in Ian’s direction. “Take that fuckin’ hand off me before I rip it off.” Ian forced himself to deny the urge to roll his eyes, and he kept silent, taking his hand off of Mickey - if only because he knew that Mickey wouldn’t do good on the promise, and Ivan would start to wonder why he wasn’t treating him like the rest of the soldiers. 

“You’re being awfully aggressive. How do you think Aleksandr would react if he knew you were treating a fellow capo as if I were below you?” Ivan questioned calmly. Ian took a breath, bracing himself for what he could feel coming. 

“Get the fuck - “ Mickey launched for him, and Ian caught him by his upper arms, just in time, while quietly mumbling the words ‘ _ there it is _ ’ under his breath. “-outta here, before I rip your -” Mickey continued his rant, but Ivan seemed to notice that Mickey wasn’t acting like himself. He looked to Ian - not like a capo to a soldier, but more like he was asking him what was going on - as often as Ian was by Mickey’s side, by now everyone knew that they were at least friendly outside of work, and that was more than Ivan could say. Ian gave him a small nod, asking him to get out of there - he did so, without a complaint, disappearing back into the basement. 

When the door closed, Ian gently eased his grip around Mickey’s biceps, ready to regain his grip, were Mickey to go after him, but he didn’t. Instead he brought his thumb up to his eyebrow, mumbling more curses beneath his breath. 

“The fuck you protecting him for?” Mickey turned to Ian once he seemed to have gathered his composure. 

“I’m protecting you, asshole - last thing you need right now is to get in trouble with Aleks.” Mickey frowned, parting his lips for a comeback, but then his eyes flickered to something behind Ian’s back, and his eyes softened, a gentle ‘ _ fuck _ ’ leaving his lips. Ian turned, eyes falling upon Yevgeny, where he sat in the booth, bottom lip protruding, a few tears quietly making their way down his cheeks. 

“Daddy why are you mad? I never hear you yell,” he sniffed. Mickey sighed, heading towards him, arms apart, but Yevgeny shook his head. “No, I want Ian,” he demanded, and Ian was there within a second, sliding into the booth, and wrapping his arms around the boy, letting him cry into his shirt. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Yev - your, your dad’s just on edge today, he’s not gonna yell again,” Ian assured him, while rubbing his back soothingly. “Right, Mick?” He stared into Mickey’s eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah…” Mickey nodded, taking a seat on the opposite side of the booth. “Shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have yelled in front of you.” 

“Shouldn’t have yelled at all,” Yevgeny corrected, face still buried in Ian’s shirt. Mickey started to roll his eyes, but Ian gave him a look. 

“Yeah,” Mickey clearly lied. “Yeah, shouldn’t have yelled at all. Let’s just forget about it, alright?” 

“I wanna go to mom’s.” 

“Yevy, hey, it’s really okay. Your dad-,” Ian tried, running a soothing hand over Yevgeny’s shoulders. 

“I said I want my mommy!” 

“Jesus,” Mickey sighed, fingers running circles over his temples. “Alright kid. Lemme go call her.” Mickey slid easily from the booth and stalked off to the back, sending a glare to anyone who dared to look in his direction. 

“Come here,” Ian directed him and pulled him into his lap, rocking him back and forth and whispering silly words to him to try and get a smile. Much to his dismay- it didn’t work. 

“Alright,” Mickey said when he came back just a few minutes later. “Let’s go. Your mom’s waiting.” 

“Can Ian come?” Yevgeny sniffled, seemingly unwilling to dislodge himself from around Ian’s neck. 

“Nah, man. He’s still got a couple hours left on his shift. But I promise you can see him again soon,” Mickey told him, crouching down so that he was eye to tear stained eye. 

Ian stood up and helped Mickey pry Yevgeny off of him, and thankfully, Yevgeny clutched Mickey just as hard. Ian ran a hand through his hair and breathed deeply through his nose as he watched Mickey gather up their things, watched as Mickey bit his lip when he noticed Yevgeny’s uneaten plate. He gave Ian a nod and started to walk away, but Ian grabbed his arm one last time, flinching a little when he saw the way Mickey’s eyes flicked to his hand as he flared his nostrils. 

“I’ll see you later?” Ian asked, trying not to let his voice crack. 

“No. You won’t.” Mickey shrugged his arm from Ian’s grip and was out the door before Ian could even reply. But he knew one thing; he wasn’t staying away. 

Ian stood still for a moment after the door slammed, but then he shook himself out of it and went on to work for the next few hours, doing his best not to worry about Yevgeny, nor Mickey. As he was about to start wrapping up and head out, the phone started to ring, and he went over to it, and picked it up, answering with the greeting he had been taught. 

“Ian! It’s me! Why didn’t you tell me you ordered a new stove and fridge?” Fiona’s voice rang from the other side of the line, a clear tone of happiness to the words. 

“Oh, I forgot those were being delivered today - I’m sorry, do they work okay?” he questioned. 

Since he became an official member of the family, Ian had spent a lot less time at home, and with his family in general - but the good thing about it was how much money he was making - at least six times as much as before. By now, they never had to worry about bills, or Liam’s clothes - and Ian always had some extra over. He had had to save up for a few weeks to get the new appliances - and to afford delivery and installation, but it was worth it. The old ones had become so unreliable that they tried to avoid using them as much as they could. 

“They’re perfect, Ian, but you really don’t have to spend more money on the family than the contribution we all agree on.” Ian rolled his eyes, and spent the next five minutes arguing with her, convincing her that he could absolutely afford the appliances. By the time that he placed the phone back onto the wall, he let a sigh escape his lips, and he began closing the diner - did the dishes, locked the door, helped Dorothy with the tables. Finally, she left, and he was left alone to wonder whether he should head home and give Mickey the night to stew in his misery, or if he should knock on his door and demand he grow the fuck up. 

It didn’t take long before he settled on the latter. 

✦✦✦

“Mickey, open the fucking door,” he yelled, the side of his fist slamming on the wood over and over. “I know you’re in there and I’m not fucking leaving!”  He could hear, distantly, the shuffling sound of someone moving inside. Trying to be quiet, undoubtedly, and it made Ian’s blood come to a boil.  “Get out here you fucking pussy!” He spat, unsure why his anger was raising and raising. And then it came to him; it was borne of caring. 

“Thought I told you to stay the fuck away,” Mickey growled, ripping the door open with enough force to dent the wall next to it.

“I don’t give a shit,” Ian sneered back, pushing his way past Mickey, knocking his shoulder as he went. 

“I don’t want you here, get the fuck out,” Mickey reiterated, keeping the door wide open so that Ian could turn around and walk back out. Of course, Ian merely turned around to glare at Mickey, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“That’s bullshit, and we both fucking know it - the fuck I do?” 

“Cut my time with my kid short’s what you did - but you ain’t stupid, so I dunno why you’re even asking.” Ian stared at him, shocked - literally - with his mouth open. Then he laughed, bitterly.

“Oh that was my fault?” Mickey gave him a nod. “‘Cause, see, the way that I remember it, you were the one scaring him, and I was the one comforting him.” 

“You know -” 

“Nah-ah - not finished,” Ian immediately interrupted, taking a step closer to Mickey, their foreheads nearly touching - though his stance was simply threatening, the tension in between them the kind that seemed to be destined to end with a punch, and nothing else. “You being pissed at me makes no fucking sense, so you know what I think?” 

“Not re-” 

“Think you jumped at the chance to be pissed at me. See, you like to walk around like you’re this big, bad wolf - but you’re not - you’re scared.” Ian pushed him backwards, the front door falling closed as he pushed him up against it, his forearm beneath his chin. “Scared of your dad, scared of me - “

“Scared of you, Fish?” Mickey cut in, a bitter chuckle to the words. 

“Yeah,” Ian nodded. “‘Cause I make you feel shit - shit you ain’t felt in a long time, maybe ever - so you want me to give you a reason to push me away so you don’t have to worry about it. So you can go back to being the same grumpy piece of shit you were ‘fore I walked into that office.” 

“You’re wrong,” Mickey said. 

“Am I?” Ian asked, staring deep into his eyes, anger still vibrating in between them. 

“You ain’t special - “

“Mmm, see, thing is you already said I was today, so...” Ian cocked his head, like he had all the answers. 

“Fuck you, Ian...” Mickey mumbled, eyes looking anywhere but at Ian. And that’s when he knew he had him. 

“You want that, Mick?” Ian husked, lips pressed close to Mickey’s ear, the whole of his body weight pushing Mickey’s further against the door, rendering him immobile. “Want me to fuck you?” 

Mickey pulled back, an awkward angle to his neck as he finally caught Ian’s gaze. His eyes flicked around Ian’s face, across his own eyes, nose. His lips. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed, and from there, it was a frenzy. 

Mickey’s hand cupped the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him down and connecting them in the most primal way; teeth and tongues made up smacking kisses. Low and deep growls came from both parties as Ian’s hands framed Mickey’s head as they smacked against the door and his lower body rolled against Mickey’s. 

Mickey, for his part, pulled Ian as close as he could and held on tight, high pitches little whimpers ghosting against Ian’s lips. He rolled his body back against Ian’s, and when he lifted his leg up against Ian’s thigh, Ian took the opportunity to hook both hands behind Mickey’s legs and hoist him up and pinning him against the door once more. 

“Shit, fuck, fuck,” Mickey whimpered when Ian’s mouth moved from his own and down to his throat, leaving behind little bites soothed by his tongue. He squirmed and writhed in Ian’s hold, but Ian could tell he wasn’t afraid of being dropped. He knew Ian would have him. 

“I’m’a give you just what you want,” Ian promised against his skin, and Mickey nodded quickly in agreement.

“Please, fuck.” 

Ian pinned Mickey to the door with his waist, turning himself almost into a sort of chair so that he could let go of one of Mickey’s legs. With his free hand, he crept it up Mickey’s thigh stopping at the apex, and gave quick, soothing rubs. 

“You want me to stop, you tell me right now,” Ian gave him a chance to back out, but Mickey only shook his head, almost painfully, before diving back in to taste Ian’s tongue. Ian was right there with him, his response not a moment delayed; he dug his fingertips into the flesh of Mickey’s upper thigh, unable to stop the groan from leaving his throat when Mickey’s teeth scraped against his bottom lip. 

Thanks to Mickey wearing only boxers on his bottom half, Ian could easily slide his hand further up Mickey’s bare thigh, until he could wrap his hand around his length. 

“Fuck,” Mickey grunted, and Ian swallowed the sound, kissing him once more before leaning their foreheads together, not moving his hand. “Please,” Mickey breathed, eyes closed now. Ian swallowed, his throat going dry at the sound. “Please,” he said again, and Ian wondered whether he was imagining the way his legs tightened around his waist when he wasn’t immediately moving. Did he like this? 

“What do you want?” 

“Anything, fuck,” Mickey leaned his head back against the door, and Ian couldn’t help but dip his head, pressing a gentle kiss to the base of his jawline. He could feel the tightness of the hair at the back of his head being tugged at. 

“Like it when I don’t give you what you want?” Ian chanced, unable to see a scenario where Mickey kicked him out once he was in this state, no matter how upset he might get. “Do you?” Ian asked again, pressing another few deep kisses to Mickey’s neck, grazing his teeth over the pale skin. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Mickey cursed, and before Ian could react, his head was tugged back, Mickey claiming his lips in between his own, teeth scratching his upper lip in a way that felt like a replacement of a punch. Ian didn’t mind - he punched him right back, shoving his tongue into his mouth, as if he wanted to see how far he was willing to take this - the rough kissing that perhaps would not be enjoyable for most. They weren’t most. “Jerk me the fuck off, asshole,” Mickey finally broke, breathing the words into Ian’s mouth. Ian giggled - giggled - and a grin took over his face, though it was quickly wiped away as Mickey bit down at his bottom lip. 

Ian started to move his hand, his thumb brushing across the tip of Mickey’s dick, and he could immediately feel the way that Mickey’s breathing picked up, the kisses slowly dropping some of the frustration, growing - not soft - but soft _ er _ . 

That was when the phone rang, shattering the moment like crystal glass dropped onto marble floor. 

“Don’t fucking answer that,” Ian pleaded, pressing another wet kiss off center- half on Mickey’s bottom lip, half on his chin. 

“Gotta,” Mickey panted, wiggling to side himself down Ian’s body and landing unsteadily on his feet. 

“Mick,” Ian sighed, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s and taking a deep breath before Mickey gently patted at his arm and pushed him away. He walked awkwardly, shaking his leg out, and Ian couldn’t help but smile knowing that he did that to him. 

He turned over and pressed his back to the door, letting out a huff of a breath and casting his eyes upward, looking at the ceiling as if something magical were happening there, rather than just his own imagination running wild. Tucking his stray and wild hair back in place, he grinned as he heard Mickey punch out a ‘Yeah?’ into his receiver. He tried to tune out the conversation, as he knew it wasn’t any of his business. Until. 

“Shit. Fuck, okay. I’ll be there. I’m coming. Yeah.”

He slammed the phone back into the cradle, and ran a hand over his face frantically, and patted his pockets of the pants he had quickly pulled on.

“Mickey? You okay?” 

Mickey looked around wildly, eyes rimmed in red until they locked on Ian’s. 

“It’s Aleks. We gotta go.” 

“Okay,” Ian nodded, any previous thoughts immediately wiped from his brain as he patted his pockets, not sure what he was looking for. “You need me to drive you, drop you off?” 

It wasn’t that Ian didn’t want to support Mickey, or be there for him, but the last thing he wanted to do was to intrude on people in such a sensitive situation. 

“No,” Mickey shook his head. “Look, don’t… Mickey took a few steps forwards, until he could pinch the fabric of Ian’s shirt in between his thumb and the side of his index finger. “Don’t make me say it asswipe,” he said, looking up at Ian. “Not sure I can get through any of this shit ‘less you’re there with me,” he admitted, anyway. 

“Okay,” Ian agreed, bringing a hand up to sort through the short, dark strands on the back of Mickey’s head. He brought his face down, lips resting against his forehead, as he mumbled: “Okay. ‘Course I’m with you.” 

Ian climbed into the drivers seat of Mickey’s Chevy without any peep of protest from the man himself, and under any other circumstances, Ian would be glad for it. But as it were, he hated it. Because silence meant that Mickey was too busy in his head. Too deep and too dark to be okay. 

Ian drove with his left hand, even if it wasn’t the way he normally would, and put his right hand on Mickey’s thigh, giving it a tight squeeze. Mickey looked up at him, Ian could see from the corner of his eye, with his lip tucked in between his teeth and his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. If he didn’t knock Ian away, instead he laced their fingers together and took to staring out of his window. 

“Where we going, Mick? His house?” Ian asked carefully, only after he’d reached the end of the street and realized he didn’t know if he needed to turn right or left. 

“Nah. Uh, hos- hospital.” Ian swallowed thickly, but turned right and onto the parkway. Mickey didn’t speak again until they reached the parking garage, winding their way up and up until Ian found a spot and smoothly pulled it. 

“You okay, Mickey? Anything I can do before we go in?” Ian asked earnestly, voice soft and strong all at once. 

“Just,” Mickey sighed, tiredly scratching at his eyebrow, and reached for Ian’s jaw, pulling him to him to press a quick and chaste kiss to his lips. “Just checking quiet, okay? Dunno what these other guys are gonna be like right now. Don’t want you in trouble.” 

“You’ll protect me if I do. Got a short fuse,” Ian teased, and thanked god when Mickey gave him a sweet shy smile. 

They made their way out of the car, and headed towards the elevators. There were people in there with them, so Ian couldn’t take Mickey’s hand, but in a way, he was grateful, because a part of him wasn’t sure if he would have been able to let go. He would have felt the same way, had it been Fiona, or Liam, or anyone else he cared about. He despised the feeling of the people he cared about most being in pain, and him not being able to do much to fix it. He just wanted to wrap him up in his arms and tell him that it was all going to be okay - especially when he sneaked in a look at him, and noticed him tensing his jaw in that way that he did when he was fighting tears - but even if he could do that, it wouldn’t fix much in the longterm - not really. 

So all he could do was to tuck his hands into the pockets of his slacks to keep his impulses from getting the best of him, as he quietly followed Mickey like a shadow. 

“Aleksandr Milkovich?” Was all Mickey said when he stepped up to the receptionist. 

“Is that your name or the name of an admitted patient?” The young man questioned without looking up - he couldn’t be older than nineteen, possibly twenty, and normally, Ian didn’t like to judge younger people - he remembered the stress of being that age, only a few years ago - but now he felt his annoyance building up. They were standing in the wing where people came to visit already admitted patients - the wing where you came for an appointment was several hallways over, why would Mickey say his own name? 

“Gallagher.” Mickey’s hand grabbing onto his bicep pulled Ian out of his bubble, and he realized that he had said those things out loud. Immediately, he looked to the receptionist, and started to apologize. 

“It’s fine, man - my bad, it’s my first day. Aleksandr Milkovich is in room 4F.” 

Mickey took a steadying breath and gave the kid a curt nod and turned to match down the hall, the soft sound of the soles of their shoes providing the only sound between the two of them. It didn’t take long before the quiet chatter up around a corner caught Ian’s attention; Ukrainian whispers let him know that they were close. 

“Hey, Mick,” Iggy greeted him solemnly with a tight smile and a tight hug. Mickey accepted it easily and fully, hugged him back just as hard. 

“Hey,” He directed at Ian with a curt, respectful nod, and Ian responded in kind. 

“Is he-,” Mickey started, but cut himself off to compose himself and clear his throat. “He okay?” 

“Running some tests now. Don’t know much yet,” Iggy shrugged. “You, ah, you think it’s a good idea to have him here?” He asked next, cocking his head in Ian’s direction. It made him feel sick, he shouldn’t have gone, should have dropped Mickey off and went on home. They were going to know. They would find out and kill him, and maybe Mickey, too. 

“He’s my right hand man,” Mickey said pointedly, and his brother let out a lungful of breath, but nodded and gave him a soft smile anyway. 

“You can go in and see him if you want,” Iggy changed the subject. “Been asking for you. Golden boy.” Mickey rolled his eyes, but his brother was able to pull a little slip of a smile out of him when he playfully punched Mickey’s shoulder. Maybe things weren’t as bad as Ian had suspected. 

Mickey turned back to Ian, and Ian somehow knew exactly what he was asking, without him having to open his mouth. 

“I’ll be here - go,” he assured him, so Mickey did so, leaving Ian in the hallway. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, except he still wasn’t comfortable with Iggy - or any other member other than Mickey, for that matter. 

“You and Mick close?” Iggy questioned as soon as Mickey closed the door to the room. Ian looked at him, throat thick - not with tears, but with fear, with uncertainty. 

“Uh…”

“You don’t gotta answer. Just uh… ‘member that sometimes you gotta fight to let him let you in, y’know? With Aleks… he ain’t gotta wanna admit how much it’s gonna affect him. Don’t uh… don’t let him push you away, okay?” 

Ian swallowed, unsure of what Iggy knew and what he didn’t. Unsure of what to say. Before he could push a response from his throat, Iggy gave him a tight smile, and a friendly push to his shoulder. Then he walked away. 

When Ian woke up hours later, hunched in an uncomfortable wooden chair in a stuffy waiting room, it was much quieter than when he’d sat down. The room was mostly empty, most of the family cleared out and gone home, Ian supposed. But one man remained, just as Ian knew he would. 

“You get any sleep?” Ian yawned, stretching out his back and twisting to release little pops up and down his spine. 

“Don’t think so.” Mickey was sat forward in his chair, leg bouncing and thumbnail bitten between his teeth. Ian frowned at the sight; the purple rings under Mickey’s eyes making him look weak and hurt. His unkempt hair sticking up in every which direction. 

“Any news?” Mickey only shook his head. “Can I get you anything? You hungry? Coffee?” 

“Nah, Fish. You can go. Go home, if you want.” 

“I don’t want to,” Ian shook his head vehemently. “You’re here, I’m here.” 

“You don’t-,” Mickey started, and Ian rolled his eyes. 

“Right hand man, right?” 

Mickey didn’t have a chance to answer before the soft shuffle of feet and the swish of a lab coat drew their attention away from each other. The doctor, Ian assumed, looked just as tired as Mickey- a matching pair of bags beneath his eyes and a droopy looking mouth adorned his face. 

“Doc,” Mickey mumbled, standing up and meeting him halfway. It seemed as if he knew him already, and distantly, Ian thought he’d heard of the family having a doctor on their payroll. 

“He’s okay for now, Mikhailo,” the doctor sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Okay? He was fucking coughing up blood! In what world is that okay?” Mickey fumed, and evening though he was a good few inches shorter than the doctor, Ian didn’t doubt that the man was intimidated anyway. 

“Mikhailo,” the doctor stuttered, “he’s- he’s sick. Terminally so. I’m not going to sugar coat it for you. He’s got a bumpy road ahead of him with no light at the end of the tunnel. He’s okay on the sense that he’s not going to die tonight. But he needs care. Probably around the clock. Do you-,” he said, glancing to Ian and lowering his voice- though not low enough as Ian could still hear him. “...have anyone on your dime that can watch him? Take care of his... personal needs?” 

“Like what?” Mickey breathed, taking a step back and rubbing his hands over his face. 

“Like showering. And toileting...” 

“You fuck- fucking kidding me?” The strangled sound that came from Mickey’s throat was something akin to a sob, and Ian felt his own chest start to constrict. 

“He needs specialized care...” the doctor tried to explain, hands up and gesturing wildly. 

“Then I’ll fucking do it!” Mickey barked. “I’ll fucking do it.”

Ian supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised by that - and in a way, he wasn’t. He was more so surprised by the pure emotion in his tone - it wasn’t as if he was saying  _ ‘I’ll do it if no one else will _ ’ but rather ‘ _ I’ll do it, of course I’ll do it - how dare you assume anything else? _ ’ Ian could see the irritated color Mickey’s eyes were taking on, courtesy of unshed tears, and his fingers itched, wanting to reach over to comfort him. 

“O… okay…” The doctor nodded, looking down at his chart. “Well, if you are certain that you can handle his personal needs at home, then I don’t see why he can’t go home - there are a few prescriptions - “

“Yeah, we got it,” Mickey interrupted him, ripping the paper from his grasp that he had been in the process of handing over. “Can he go now?” 

“Well, I would recommend the morning, so that - “

“He gonna be worse if we take him now?” 

“Well, no - “

“Okay, Fish, let’s go.” 

Aleksandr and Mickey both had to sign some papers, but then he was free to leave. Ian never entered the hospital room, feeling it was too private - but when Mickey exited, he feared he should have. Aleksandr was next to him, looking more frail than Ian had ever seen him - the grim reaper wasn’t knocking on his door just yet, but it was clear that he wasn’t well. The thin, greying hair that was usually combed backwards was now standing up, his typically sunken in cheeks were even more so, and his frame while always thin, compared to Mickey, Iggy, and Terry . seemed to have lost much of the muscle mass that he had had. 

“I see you brought a friend,” Aleksandr said, as Mickey stayed close to him, a bag slung over his shoulder, probably so that his uncle didn’t have to carry anything but his own weight. 

“You ain’t in fighting shape, дядько. Maybe save it until you get some sleep, man,” Mickey told him, as the three slowly made their way down the hallway, and towards the exit. 

“Ah, I’m not squaring up for a fight, Mikhailo,” Aleksandr assured him. Ian could hear the difference in the way that they spoke now, compared to the way that they usually did. He wasn’t sure how much of it had to do with the fact that they weren’t at work, and how much of it had to do with the fact that they knew they wouldn’t have much longer together. “Not many people find a loyal right hand man.” 

A few steps away from the doors, Aleksandr stopped, coughing roughly. 

“Shit,” Mickey hissed, throwing an arm out to help keep Aleksander’s balance, the crackly sound of sputum sloshing around in his throat nearly deafening. 

“I’m alright. I’m alright,” Aleks waved him off, righting himself and continuing his walk. “You look better since last I saw you. I suspect Ian here has something to do with that?” 

“Maybe something like that,” Mickey shrugged him off, and while Ian felt something warm flood his system, he could help but feel a little bitter when Mickey looked anywhere but back at him. 

“Then I guess I owe Ian a thanks.” 

Ian drive them quietly back toward Aleksander’s house. Mickey sat him the backseat while Aleks sat in the front, giving him a one word direction here and there. The air inside felt stifling, heavy and thick with words that everyone had begging to be let off the tips of their tongues, and Ian had never been more relieved than when he turned into Aleks’ expansive driveway. 

Ian shouldn’t have been surprised to find that Aleks’ bedroom was every bit as impressive as the rest of the home. Painted in a deep red color, so crimson that it nearly showed itself to be purple, it’s accents all in gold. Ian was rendered speechless by its extravagance, until Mickey called his name to get his attention. 

“Head back down. Gonna get him to bed.” 

Ian nodded and cleared his throat. “It was nice to see you, sir. Hopefully next time it’ll be under happier circumstances.” He doubted that his words would ever ring true. 

It didn’t take Mickey’s footsteps to sound against dark wooden staircase. He was a personification of exhaustion; all rumpled clothes and sad, glassy looking eyes. Ian couldn’t stay away. 

“You okay?” He asked softly, hugging Mickey to his chest and smoothing down his wild hair. 

Mickey was silent for a long moment, even as his own arms wrapped around Ian’s waist and his nose buried itself in his neck. He shook his head instead of speaking. 

“What can I do?” 

“Go home,” Mickey finally breathed, dislodging himself from Ian’s hold. 

“Mick-,” 

“No. I’m serious. I’ll be alright. But it’s- you can’t stay here, and I’m not leaving.” 

He didn’t like it, but he understood. 

“You’ll call me tomorrow.” It wasn’t a question, and Mickey understood that, nodding his head and brushing his finger across his lower lip. 

“Yeah, Fish. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

Ian nodded, fingers itching to reach for Mickey and pull him back in for another hug. Words gathering on the tip of his tongue, wanting to spill out, wanting to let Mickey know how much Ian felt for him, how much he admired him. How much he wished that he could make everything okay. 

Instead he gave him another nod, a sad smile - and he left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone sticking with this story, we both appreciate all the love so much!


	17. seventeen

Two weeks passed by, and while Ian had spoken to Mickey a few times here and there on the phone, he’d seen hide nor hair of him with his own two eyes, and he missed him more than he could put into words. He understood, of course, that it wasn’t about him. That his feelings didn’t matter, at least not then. Mickey had familial obligations, and Ian respected that. That didn't mean that he liked it. 

Mickey finally showed his face very near the beginning of the third week, walking into the kitchen of the diner where Ian was elbow deep in a sink full of dirty dishes. Mickey still looked like Mickey... only, not. He still wore nice clothes- clean and crisp and sharp as hell. His hair was still styled in that special Mickey way that Ian loved. His shoulders were still taught and commanding and his eyes were still narrowed and his jaw was still set. But he looked tired. He looked tired in his bones and in his soul. His eyes looked far away and unfocused, and Ian felt it shoot through him as harshly as a bullet. 

“Mick, hey,” he said carefully, as if his words would be enough to spook him and have him running for the hills. “How you holding up?”  Mickey ran a hand over his face, nodding as if Ian had even asked him a yes or no question. 

“Fine.”  He wasn’t fine, that much was plain to see. But Ian knew it wasn’t his place to pry- or if it was, it most certainly wasn’t the time. So instead he mirrored Mickey, nodding his head and letting out a sharp breath. 

“So... haven’t seen you in a while,” Ian said, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the greasy floor. “Missed you,” he added, lower so that no one else would hear. 

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, a little twitchy, and Ian made a mental note that maybe speaking so openly made Mickey uncomfortable. He’d choose his words a little more carefully. He reached for one of the dish towels, wiping his hands free of water, and suds; he made sure that his hands were extra dry, taking an extra few seconds to get his urges under control. To make sure that he wouldn’t reach out and pull Mickey into his arms, because now was certainly not the time, even if Mickey would have liked it - which Ian wasn’t sure that he would. Personally, he always liked physical contact when he was upset, but he had figured out that with Mickey, it was about fifty-fifty. 

“Can I do something for you?” Ian asked after a beat, or two. He hadn’t meant it to come out so professional, so he was quick to correct himself. “I mean, at all, for you - not just ‘cause we’re at work…” He rambled, and Mickey soon had to wave him off, silently assuring him that he understood exactly what he meant. 

“Uh, that’s why I’m here. I uh… I’m taking you out of the kitchen,” Mickey informed him. Ian couldn’t help but note that his voice was gravely, hoarse - not in a good way, not in the way that Ian liked it. Rather in a way that indicated crying, and long nights with no sleep. 

“Oh, okay,” Ian nodded. “When?” 

"Officially - tomorrow morning - but we’re leavin’ now, we gotta go through some shit, I’ll have Iggy cover, and I’ll put someone else in later.” 

Under normal circumstances, perhaps Ian would have been annoyed with the whiplash, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel those emotions right now. Instead he nodded, washed his hands and took his apron off, before he followed Mickey out of the diner, and into his Chevrolet. 

“Need you to take care of Aleks,” Mickey said, as soon as the doors were shut. He reached for the pack of Lucky Strikes, hand clearly unsteady as he brought the cigarette up to his lips, and lit it, the car moving along the streets. 

“Oh… okay - are you sure he’s comfortable with me -” 

“He ain’t comfortable with anyone doin’ it, but I’m being kicked in the ass for not bein’ around, Iggy’s in his own load of shit..” Mickey took a beat to breathe out the smoke. “You’re all I got, man.”

“I don’t know how...” Ian told him honestly, growing more and more worried with each turn of Mickey’s steering wheel. 

“That’s why I’m gonna fucking show you. Jesus Christ, you gonna fight me on this?” Mickey spat, and Ian had to remind himself that Mickey lashed out when he was scared. When he was hurt. When he didn’t know how to find the right words to just ask for help like a normal person. 

“No, Mick,” Ian assured him. “I’m not gonna fight you. I’m sorry.”  He took a chance, reaching across and settling his palm on Mickey's thigh. He prepared himself to be pushed away, and reminded himself not to take it to heart, but was surprised when all he got was a sidelong glance. But his hand stayed firmly in place for the rest of the ride. 

“He looks like shit,” Mickey told him bluntly once his car was switched off; parked outside of Aleks’ estate. 

“Okay.”

“He looks real bad, Ian,” Mickey whispered, voice cracking just after the ‘b.’ 

“Okay,” Ian repeated, just as softly as Mickey.  Mickey turned away from him, staring out of his window and biting at his fingernails. Ian did the only thing he could think of- and rubbed his thumb back and forth against the fabric covering Mickey’s knee. He was surprised when Mickey’s hand moved to cover his, gripping it tightly for a beat before letting go and stepping out of the car. 

Ian had never liked Aleks’ place - it was too large, intimidating. Lonely? But this time, instead of him walking behind Mickey like the puppy that everyone saw him as, they walked side by side, because he had a feeling that it was the only way Mickey would reach the front door.  Mickey didn’t bother knocking, or ringing the doorbell. Nor did he call Aleksandr’s name when they stepped inside. Ian soon realized that it was because he was on the second floor, and thanks to the size of the house, wouldn’t have heard them anyway. 

“Look, uh…” Mickey came to a stop at the top of the staircase, Ian nearly bumping into him. He turned around, using his thumb to brush across his lower lip. “Gonna lead you through a couple things, but the main thing you need’a know is that he ain’t gonna ask for help. He gonna tell you he can take a shower, gonna tell you he can walk down the stairs without you carryin’ his oxygen tank, but it ain’t true.” 

Ian swallowed down any possible quips about how they seemed to be a lot alike, and settled for a nod. Mickey turned back around, then, and walked down one of the endless hallways, opening a door and turning the light on. When Ian looked over his shoulder, he saw a quite typical hallway closet - some jackets, some shoes, a vacuum - and several oxygen tubes. 

“Svet managed to get ‘em for free - I didn’t ask,” he mumbled, as he turned the lights off, and closed the door. “When the tank starts beeping, you gotta change it. ‘Bout every six or seven hours.” 

“How… how do I…” 

“I’ll show you, just figured we’d go through the stuff out here ‘fore I tell him you’re taking care of him. Not sure how he’ll react.”

“Mickey, are you sure that I should do this?” Ian couldn’t help but ask again, reaching out for Mickey’s shoulder, so that he would turn around and face him instead of marching back down the hallway. “I mean, I will - it’s just… it seems so personal, I don’t want to make him uncomfortable,” Ian shrugged. Mickey sighed, scratching his eyebrow. 

“I know Aleks, a’ight? He hates not being able to do shit himself, he ain’t gonna have a ton of fun either way. He’ll feel a whole lot better with someone he knows, rather than some cranky old nurse,” Mickey shrugged. "Plus... they usually end up quitting." 

Opening the door to Aleksander’s bedroom was far different from a few weeks ago. Before, when Ian only felt relief- that the man was able to leave the hospital, that Mickey wouldn’t lose him that night- he only felt a sinking feeling of dread when he took in the darkened room and the rattled sound of labored breathing. 

Mickey made his way quickly to the bedside, squatting down to get himself level with Aleks, laying on his side and facing away from Ian. 

“я назад, алекс. я приніс рибу. Він збирається допомогти вам,” Mickey whispered to him, and in the dim lighting Ian could see that he was preparing himself to be chastised. When Aleks let out a string of words that sounded an awful lot like a protest, Mickey scraped his thumbnail across his eyebrow with a sigh.  “I know. But I’m not leaving you alone and Terry’s on my ass about all the time I’m spending here.” 

“Pfft,” Aleks spat. “Always the loyal one, your father.”  Mickey didn’t so much as flinch at the sarcastic, unkind words spoken against his dad, not that Ian had expected him to. 

“Yeah, well. He’s a piece of shit. But you aren’t, and I ain’t gonna let you sit here alone. So, you’re just gonna have to deal with it,” Mickey said.  Aleks let out a heavy breath, something that didn’t sound unlike a pained bit of laughter, and Mickey’s eyes softened as he heard it, too. 

“You’ll be a good leader, Mikhailo, one day when it’s your turn,” Aleks told him, reaching out a shaky hand to pat at Mickey’s stubbled cheek. 

Even from feet away, Ian could see the way Mickey’s face started to crumble, reaching up and patting Aleks’ hand with his own. Holding it to himself like a lifeline. Ian felt sorely out of place- this was a moment not reserved for him to see, but he couldn’t look away. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on this boy- _his_ boy, maybe- and the way he still managed to look so beautiful, even as his world was tumbling down around him in heavy, dangerous pieces. 

“Well,” Mickey grunted and cleared his throat. “That day ain’t today, but you’re gonna listen to me anyhow. Fish is staying. You can give him a hard time about it if it’ll make you feel better.” He looked to Ian just long enough to give him a smirk and for Ian to roll his eyes.  Mickey gave Aleks’ hand one last pat before he sat it gently on the bed and rose to his feet. Waking past Ian, he motioned with his head to follow him out, to give him a proper goodbye, Ian hoped. He was stopped by Aleks’ voice calling his name. 

“Yeah?” 

“You tell your father to go fuck himself.” 

Mickey let out a wet bark of laughter, and Ian thought that even if the angels themselves were to come down and sing for him, he still wouldn’t ever hear a better sound. 

“я тебе люблю, дядьку.” He didn’t wait for a reply, instead stepping just past the bedroom door and waiting for Ian to follow. When they were both outside, Mickey quietly closed the door to the bedroom, keeping his eyes trained on the floor for a beat, then the wall behind Ian, then out the window, before he finally looked at him, seemingly sighing.  “Thanks,” he said. 

Ian wasn’t sure if he had heard him say that word before - not in such a sincere way. He had said it in other ways, Ian was sure - an extra kiss to his lips, a squeeze to his hand, but he couldn’t remember him looking at him with that vulnerable, sad glimmer in his eye while saying the word. 

Ian didn’t say anything back; instead, he reached out, and pulled Mickey into his chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He didn’t know whether Mickey wanted it, but he knew that he needed it - hell, _Ian_ needed it. It didn’t take more than a second before Mickey released a tired puff of air against his collarbone, before Ian felt his arms make their way around his waist. 

“I gotta get back,” Mickey murmured after a moment, and Ian was surprised when he felt a chaste kiss being dropped to the base of his neck. Ian hummed, and they let go of each other, their eyes meeting again. 

“‘M I spending the night here?” Ian asked, and Mickey shook his head. 

“Nah, I’ll have Iggy come, he’s just busy during the days.” 

“Okay. I’m spending it at your place.” It wasn’t a question, and it seemed that Mickey realized that. So he rolled his eyes, but nodded, and then he placed a hand on the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him down for a brief kiss, followed by a pat to his cheek. Then he was walking down the hallway, and Ian was left to knock onto Aleks’ door. 

“Do you need anything right now?” He called, before realizing that it was probably a stupid question, as he wouldn’t say yes either way. 

To his surprise, Aleksandr didn’t tell him to beat feet. Didn’t yell and scream and push him away. Instead, he nodded his head and gestured to a comfortable looking chair next to his bed.  Ian’s head spun just at the thought of a bedroom being big enough for anything other than a tiny little bed and a tiny little dresser- and yet, there he was. In a cold house filled with expensive furnishings, watching over a very dangerous man. 

“I’m sure Mikhailo’s already gotten to you. Poisoned you against me so that you think me as frail and weak,” he sighed, and while his words seemed that scathing, his voice did not. 

“He only told me that you might not want help, but that you may need it anyway. I assure you, I’m going to be as respectful as I can, sir, but still make sure that your needs are met. You’re too important to Mick... hailo, for me not to.” 

Aleks appraised him for a long, quiet moment. His eyes raked over Ian’s form from head to toe. From the tips of his fingers to the aura around him. Ian felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny, squirmy and itchy in a way that he’d never felt before, and he was thankful to god when Aleks’ eyes landed back on his own. 

“Seems I’m not the only one so important to him,” Aleks mentioned, but the words held no accusation. Ian felt sick anyway. If Aleksander knew something- would something happen to him? To Mickey? He needed to push to find out. 

“Sir?” 

“My nephew is a good man, Ian. And a good judge of character. If he thinks that you’re a good man, then I trust his judgement. But I want to hear it for myself. Are you a good man, Ian?” 

He didn’t know where that line of questioning had come from. He didn’t know how to answer it. The previous year he would have been able to say yes, absolutely. But he’d spent his time intimidating people and terrorizing businesses. He’d beaten people. He killed a man- remembered his face every night in his dreams. So, he was honest. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered, and Aleks nodded. 

“Ah. An honest man, then,” Aleksandr shrugged. “I can see the appeal...”  It seemed that Ian never knew what to say to him, always rendered speechless.  “I’m feeling tired, Ian. I’d like to sleep now. I would say not to bother me again, but it seems we both know that I won’t be getting any privacy anytime soon. Not with our watchdog calling the shots on my care,” he chuckled, his laughter turning into a horrid coughing fit. After a minute, Ian spotted a jug of water and a glass on the dresser, and he poured some of it, handing it to Aleksandr, but he merely waved him off, the coughing eventually subsiding by itself. 

With a nod, Ian obeyed his request, and excited the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He wasn’t too sure what he was supposed to do while Aleksandr was asleep, so he took to wandering the house - not to snoop, more to see if there were any dirty dishes that needed to be done, but of course the answer was no; the house was immaculate. 

After an hour or so, he ended up in the living room - which looked a lot more inviting when the couches and sofa chairs weren’t littered with two dozen half-drunk Ukrainian mobsters. Keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, he wandered over to the fireplace, eyes taking in the various picture frames. He wondered whether Aleksandr had put them there, or if his wife had; Ian distantly remembered Mickey mentioning that she had taken off a couple decades ago - when the family became too much for her. A part of Ian didn’t blame her. Especially since they didn’t seem to have any children. 

There was a picture of what had to be Aleksandr and Terry - he recognized Terry first - he looked the same, only thirty, forty years younger with some more hair on his head. His face carried the same scowl that had taught Ian what it felt like to truly and honestly hate another human being. Next to him was Aleksandr, and when Ian looked closer, he was the one of them who looked the most alike their older selves - he had recognized Terry because of his expression, his build. Aleksandr was the one with a similar hairstyle, the same look in his eye - the one Ian never knew what to make of. 

The more Ian looked at the picture, the angrier he got. Aleksandr was standing behind Terry, a hand on his shoulder. He was clearly the older brother - not just because he was taller, and looked to be in his twenties while Terry looked thirteen, or possibly fourteen - but because of the slight smile on his face, the… pride. Terry was holding some kind of award - Ian couldn’t tell what for. It looked like an older brother, supporting his younger brother, being proud of him. 

Where was Terry now? Ian couldn’t imagine leaving one of his siblings like this - no matter what their relationship was like at the time. 

Ian sighed, moving on to the next few pictures, a soft smile immediately settling onto his face. Mickey. Ian recognized him immediately, despite the fact that he didn’t look older than Yevgeny’s age. The same blue eyes, the same black hair. There were three other kids in the picture - Iggy, who looked to be seven, or eight. Another boy, who looked a few years older than Iggy, and a girl - Mickey’s age. Ian vaguely recalled Mickey mentioning that he had a sister. He couldn’t remember if he had ever gotten her name. 

Ian moved on - a picture of Mickey with Yevgeny; a picture of Mickey and Iggy in their teen years - some pictures of people that Ian didn’t recognize. 

A bump from the staircase was what drew Ian’s attention away, and he immediately hurried to it, but he was too late to help - Aleksandr was already down the staircase, carrying his oxygen tank by himself, breathing heavily. 

“Sir, you should have told me to come help - “

“Fuck that,” he waved him off, and Ian had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling at how alike he and Mickey were. “Not a complete invalid just yet,” he continued. “Are you robbing my house?” He asked, clearly not serious, as he slowly made his way towards the living room. Ian followed, staying close enough to support him, were he to need it. 

“No, sir - I was just looking at the pictures over the fireplace,” Ian explained. 

“Ah,” Aleks wheezed, taking careful steps into the same living room that Ian had just left, draping himself over one of the plushy couches. “Pictures are one of my true prides. I’ve got pictures and pictures somewhere in a box in the attic. Perhaps some day we’ll sit and look through them.” 

“I’d like that, sir,” Ian smiled, finding that he really did like the sound of it, if only to get a clearer view of Mickey’s childhood. 

“There’s a framed photo in the dining room; one of Mikhailo and I when he was young. Bring it to me.”  Ian nodded and made his way to where he was directed, not immediately finding his target, as the wall was littered with picture after picture- most of them of Mickey featured, if only in the background. It wasn’t hard to see that Mickey was his favorite. Nor was it hard to see why. 

He found two of Aleks and Mickey, both when Mickey was young, and carefully slid them from the nails on which they were hung. He padded back to the living room, catching sight of Aleksandr pushing his nasal cannula a little deeper into his nose. He smiled, only a little, when Ian came back into his view and handed both frames over to him. 

“Cute little fucker, wasn’t he?” He grinned, looking at Mickey’s mischievous little face and running a ringer lovingly over the glass. Ian didn’t say anything back to that, unwilling to say, yes! The cutest! But also not knowing how to play at nonchalance.  “I don’t have children, you know,” Aleks sighed. “Mikhailo’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a son. I’m more proud of him than I can say.” 

“He feels the same about you,” Ian assured him, and only after he’d said it, he realized he may have said too much. He was letting Aleks into the secret that he Ian spoke- spoke true and free and deep. And maybe about things that weren't customary for two men to talk about. Aleks eyed him sideways, but didn’t mention it if he thought that there was anything strange about what Ian had said. 

“This one,” he held one out for Ian to see. Mickey couldn’t have been more than ten, proudly holding a fishing pole, complete with a small little fish at the end of the line- Aleksandr behind him with a hand on his shoulder, just as he’d done for Terry. “Was taken when Mikhailo was, oh, maybe eight or so. Terentius was in prison that year. Mikhailo and his siblings stayed with me. It was a good year.” He smiled sadly over Ian’s shoulder, taken back in time when things were simpler, Ian supposed.  “He was a good, smart boy. He still is. The only one who was ever interested in just... learning. Expanding his horizons.” He handed over the next picture. Mickey was a little older, but not by too terribly much. Aleksandr and Mickey both bent over the hood of an old pickup truck. Both covered in inky black smudges of grease. Both smiling so wide that it nearly looked painful. “Always tinkering, that one. Learning new skills. Cooking. Mechanical work. Electronics. You name it, and Mikhailo can work on it. Can figure out what needs to be done. Very smart. Very... smart.” 

Ian nodded. He didn’t know the magnitude of Mickey’s knowledge, but he knew enough not to be surprised by Aleksandr's words.  For a moment, Aleksandr seemed to be enthralled by the photograph, possibly recalling the memory attached to it. Then he coughed once - not too badly, and looked to Ian. 

“чи ти навчився?”

“Uh… sir, I’m not sure what that means, my Ukrainian isn’t great yet, I’m sorry.” Aleksandr hummed. 

“Since we’re gonna be stuck together, how about we change that? I’ll teach you some. Starting tomorrow.” 

“That’s really nice, sir. Thank you.” 

✦✦✦

Around ten or eleven at night, Iggy arrived, freeing Ian to leave. As he entered the house, he threw Ian a set of car keys, which he barely caught in time. 

“Mick told me to let you take the car. I gotta be here until you come back in the morning, anyway.” 

So Ian got into the car that he assumed belonged to Iggy - partly because it wasn’t nearly as flashy as Mickey’s, and partly because the floor was decorated with empty soda cups from various drive-in diners. As he started driving, he fought a yawn, and he felt a desperate need to climb into bed. He could already imagine it - the soft sheets, the cold pillow - Mickey. He was imagining Mickey’s bed. Not that it was all that surprising, seeing as that was where he was heading, but he hadn’t meant to picture Mickey’s bed. That was just where his mind had gone when he imagined somewhere he felt safe, and warm.  He really _was_ gone on him, wasn't he? 

Eventually, he pulled into Mickey’s driveway, and locked the car, before heading for the front door, knocking a few times. Silence lingered for a beat, and then he heard the sound of Mickey’s feet heading towards him. As soon as the door opened, Mickey raised his brows. 

“You alive?” 

“Shit. Barely. He had me running ragged,” Ian told him, lying through his teeth as he stepped through the threshold. “Made me look at a bunch of pictures of you so he could tell me how great you are.”  Mickey laughed quietly, touching at his face in that way he always did when he was shy... or mad, or sad or nervous. 

“Alright, alright. Shut the fuck up.” 

“Mikhailo’s so smart. Mikhailo is a problem solver. Mikhailo is a natural leader...” Ian listed off, smiling as he did so, because even though he knew his uncle may have been a little biased, well, so was he. 

“Demented old fuck, ain’t he?” Mickey chuckled, watching the floor as if it held the world’s secrets. 

“I think he’s smart,” Ian shook his head, taking a chance stepping forward to rest his hands over Mickey’s waist.  Mickey looked up, blue eyes sparkling and mesmerizing, biting his lip and chewing at it as if it had personally affronted him. Ian shook his head again and pulled that lip from between Mickey’s teeth, pushing his own lips against Mickey’s to stop him from doing it again.  “Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed into Mickey, meaning it more than Mickey ever could have imagined. 

Mickey didn’t answer with words. Instead he tangled his fingers in Ian’s hair, tugging him closer and keeping him just where he wanted him. Clumsily, Ian reached behind himself to turn the lock on the front door before determinedly starting to steer them towards the staircase, all the while continuously kissing Mickey like he was alone in the cold woods, craving the fire that Mickey ignited within him. 

As they stumbled blindly up the staircase, Ian’s hands wandered over Mickey’s clothed back, his shoulders, but he couldn't help but settle them in a gentle hold around his face, deepening the kiss as much as he could. No matter how close he was to Mickey, it seemed it was never enough, he was always craving more. Always. 

Ian grunted when Mickey pushed him backwards, letting him fall onto the bed. Ian briefly opened his eyes to see Mickey climb on top of him. 

“Fuck,” Ian couldn’t help but sigh at the sight. God, he was beautiful. “You’re beautiful,” he voiced. 

“It’s time to shut the fuck up, Fish,” Mickey commanded, but Ian felt the hint of a smile on his lips when they pressed back against his own. He wasn’t sure how long they continued like that - making out, grabbing, rubbing through clothes like teenagers in a drive-in movie. Eventually, it started to slow down - the kisses grew less biting, and softer, slower. 

As much as they both wanted each other, the current circumstances had them exhausted. It didn’t take long before the comfort of each other’s presence lulled them both to sleep in each other’s arms, still half-clothed. 

✦✦✦

When Ian knocked on Aleksandr’s door the next morning, Iggy opened it, and informed him that he had already helped his uncle take a shower, but made sure Ian knew that he hadn’t eaten. Apparently he liked to lie about it, because he ‘ _believed more in cigarettes_ ’. 

Thanks to the echo of coughs, Ian found Aleksandr in the dining room, reading through the newspaper, a cloud of tobacco smoke around him. 

“I have to say I admire your commitment, sir,” Ian said from the doorway. “You know, they’re saying cigarettes are the leading cause for lung cancer.” 

“Ah, fuck ‘em,” Aleksandr said. “They don’t know as much as they think they do.” 

“Can I speak freely, sir?” Ian asked, feeling a little wild- yet to come down from his high of spending the night and morning wrapped up in the smell of petrichor and aftershave. 

“Dunno, can you, son?” 

Ian smiled. “I was just gonna say that you sound an awful lot like someone else.”  Aleksandr made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a breathless laugh, delighted that maybe someone else saw the impact he’d tried to bestow upon Mickey. 

“Told you, that kid’s got a good head on his shoulders,” he said, tapping at his own temple. "I made sure of it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "I'm back, Aleks. I brought Fish, he's going to help you." 
> 
> "I love you, uncle." 
> 
> "Have you learned?"


	18. eighteen

The next few weeks passed by quite quickly. It turned out that Ian didn’t really mind spending time with Aleksandr once he dropped the ‘mob boss’ persona. He wasn’t a particularly warm person, but he wasn’t too cold, either. And by the beginning of the fourth week of caring for him, Ian had learnt a lot more Ukrainian than he thought possible.

“куди ти йдеш?” Ian tried, voice rising at the end, as he was still very unsure of the language. 

“куди я йду,” Aleksandr corrected, after a small coughing fit - small, meaning the kind of coughing fit that would have had anyone calling an ambulance if it was coming from Ian, but the scale was quite different when it came to Aleksandr. It was slowly getting worse, and Ian did his best not to think about it. Mickey would need him when the time came, the last thing they needed was for both of them to be in mourning. “You asked where I was going.” 

“Right, sorry,” Ian nodded. “Я is I. куди я йду?” Aleksandr gave him a nod, and then moved on to the next phrase for him to translate. 

✦✦✦

By the time that Iggy showed up, it was already close to midnight, and Ian found himself driving to Mickey’s house without a second thought. He didn’t always spend his nights there - in fact, he hadn’t seen him in a little over a week, and they hadn’t spoken in two days or so. Perhaps that was the very reason why he felt the need to go check on him, why he needed to be close to him. 

He parked the car - his own car, which he had finally been able to afford; of course it looked like a dumpster next to Mickey’s two luxury cars, but it still brought him a fair deal of pride - and he knocked on the door. 

Ian waited impatiently, excited and giddy to see Mickey after so long, he bounced on his feet and started to whistle- some old tune that he couldn’t put a name to. And when he heard the tell tale sign of the deadbolt coming undone, he smiled so wide that it could have split his lips down the middle. 

“Hiya, Mi-,”

“I help you with something?” Mickey snarled as soon as the door was thrown open. Ian’s smile fell near immediately, wiped off of his face as if it were as heavy as lead. 

“You okay?” Ian asked, because for all of the welcomings he had prepared himself for (ones of smiles and hugs and kisses, shit, he would have taken a nod and been happy), this was not one of them. 

“Fucking fine, Firecrotch. Not in the fucking mood to be head shrinked. Go the fuck home.”  Ian opened his mouth and closed it back, unsure what to say. Mickey looked at him with icy eyes and thoughts of murder running through his veins, hard and impassive. Ian wanted nothing more than to sit down with a bottle of whiskey and have Mickey tell him everything- fingers threading through his hair and lips pressed against his skin.  “That all? Good. Bye.” 

The door slammed in Ian’s face without another word, and though it was thick and drowned out the sound from the outside world usually, Ian could hear the heavy clomp of angered foot steps leading away. It didn’t take him long to go from shocked to pissed; he hadn’t done anything but take care of his sick uncle for weeks. He wasn’t deserving of the cold shoulder and being told to fuck off. The side of his fist pounded away at the door as his anger bubbled over.

“Mickey!” He called. “Mick!” He didn’t stop for long enough to listen for footsteps, instead he continued. “Get back out here, you pussy! I don’t deserve -” The door opened, and Ian just barely kept from falling flat onto his face. 

“Christ, Gallagher, stop screaming, you’re waking the whole ass neighbourhood - told you to go the fuck home. There ain’t an option B.” Mickey was about to slam the door shut yet again, but Ian was fast enough to catch it, pushing his way inside. 

“The fuck happened?” He asked, eyebrows knitted as Mickey rolled his eyes, letting the door fall closed. Ian wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he had actually done something to piss Mickey off this much, when they had spoken on the phone just a couple days ago, and everything had been fine. Something else was bothering him. 

“I told you I don’t want to talk to your annoying, don’t-know-when-the-fuck-to-leave-it ass, so either get the fuck out of my house, or stay down here. I’m going to bed, and you’re not fucking invited.”  It was first when Mickey stomped up the staircase that Ian noticed a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand. 

“Yeah, fucking right,” Ian mumbled under his breath, before following Mickey into his bedroom. Mickey didn’t notice Ian until he slammed the bedroom door shut behind him. 

“Christ,” Mickey grunted, placing the bottle onto his nightstand with a lot more force than what was needed. “You don’t get the fuck out, imma call someone to make you get the fuck out.” 

“I’m so fucking scared,” Ian spit, voice dripping with sarcasm and anger. Mickey charged for him, placing one hand onto his shoulder, and the other onto the door knob, trying to push him out into the hallway; Ian was stronger. It didn’t take long until he had Mickey pushed up against the wall next to his dresser, a hand around his throat.  “If you got some fucking problem,” Ian growled, face only an inch from Mickey’s- close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath and the sweat on his skin, “...then you fucking deal with it with whoever the fuck it is. You don’t fucking take it out on me, _Mikhailo._ ” 

Mickey’s eyes grew wide, for just a second, a tiny little bit of time, before they narrowed and grew darker all at once. Ian felt a little pang of sickening pride at being able to scare him, even if it was fleeting. Mickey used that time, when Ian was patting himself on the back like a goddamn jackass to leverage his own hand under Ian’s and throw him back and away from him. 

“You come in my house, my fucking house, and start throwing your weight around? Are you outta your damn mind? I’ll put you in the ground!” 

“Yeah?” Ian snapped, unperturbed by the vicious way Mickey’s voice rasped out. “Do it, tough guy. Come on. Whatcha waiting for?” Ian held his arms out at his sides, wagging his fingers in a come-and-get-some way, begging Mickey to take a swing, because truthfully, he was so tired of Mickey’s hot and cold nature. The way Mickey took his problems and buried them down deep- made himself a ticking time bomb just begging to go off. And Ian always seemed to be the recipient. 

Mickey took the bait. One minute he was stock still, vibrating with rage and testosterone, the next he was barreling into Ian hard enough to knock him on his back- thankfully, on the bed. He raised his fist and delivered a blow to Ian’s jaw before Ian could stop it. But that hit, that dizzying ache forced his adrenaline to flow, and activated his fight or flight mode- and he was ready to fight. 

He used his longer limbs to wrap around the trunk of Mickey’s body, forcibly rolling them over and switching their positions. He landed a hit of his own, powerful and directed at Mickey’s ribs. It landed, and Mickey grunted, thrashing wildly beneath Ian as he straddled him tight, clamping his thighs around Mickey’s to keep him in place. 

Mickey scratched and bit and snarled like a rabid dog, clearly having been in fight after fight in his life- but Ian had, too. He grew up in a neighborhood that demanded the skill, and he hoped that Mickey understood he wouldn’t just roll over and let this happen. Keeping Mickey’s bottom half locked in place, he used the weight of his upper body to pin Mickey’s hands down on either side of his own head, if only to catch his breath. 

“Stop fighting me,” he rumbled, chest heaving and staring daggers into Mickey. 

“Fuck you, Gallagher,” Mickey spat and tried to get up again, but Ian only added more pressure. 

“Stay fucking still!” He barked; pulled a deep and commanding voice from somewhere he hadn’t accessed before- he didn’t sound like himself. Mickey must have picked up on it, too, immediately stilling as his breath came out in a ragged gasp. 

“Oh,” Ian breathed. “Fuck.” He kept a firm grip around Mickey’s wrists as he let his eyes wander down, and then back up to Mickey’s eyes. “You fucking hard right now?” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey tried to bark, but Ian’s ears read it more as a whine; the very present feeling of Mickey’s cock rapidly growing against his thigh didn’t exactly help his case. “The fuck off me,” Mickey tried again, but this time, he didn’t even seem to buy it himself, much less try to sell it to Ian. 

“Yeah?” Ian asked, swiftly collecting both of Mickey’s wrists into one of his hands, freeing the other one to reaffirm his previous hold around his neck, the tip of his index finger brushing across the lobe of his ear. He hadn’t been expecting this - at all - but something about the way he had Mickey completely overpowered, and the way that Mickey seemed to… enjoy it - it made his own slacks tighter, and it didn’t take long before he had to roll his hips, holding back a groan. “I don’t fucking buy it.” 

Mickey looked into his eyes, a noise making its way from his throat as Ian rolled his hips again; a noise in between a grunt and a hum. 

“God, I fucking hate you,” Ian mumbled in annoyance, unable to keep from catching Mickey’s plump lips in between his own, thirsty for the taste he now craved at every waking hour. Mickey immediately reciprocated, teeth scratching against Ian’s upper lip as they hastily got rid of their clothes - several buttons were detached, and tumbled to the floor, but Ian couldn’t bring himself to cringe at the expensive clothing items being damaged.

Not when he had Mickey underneath him; kissing his jawline, biting his neck, scratching his shoulders - rolling his hips upwards - just as desperate for Ian as Ian was for him. 

As soon as they were rid of their boxers, Mickey didn’t waste much time, spreading his legs to give Ian a better angle as he rolled his hips. They kissed sloppily - teeth, tongue, leftover anger, and punches they had missed out on - while Mickey seemed lost in the makeout session, and the feeling of Ian’s cock sliding against his own - Ian took the opportunity to grab his wrists once again, pinning them to the mattress above his head. 

“How you wanna do this?” He asked, lifting his upper body slightly away from Mickey’s chest, using his entire weight to hold his wrists, and grind his hips, pulling those soft hiccups from Mickey’s throat, despite the way he seemed to fight to hold them in. 

“Just- Jesus Christ, fuck me, you fucking fuck.” Mickey panted, and Ian growled again, leaning down to bite at Mickey’s chest. Mickey took the opportunity to fight back against Ian’s hold, managing to get free for long enough to attempt to roll Ian over, but he didn’t succeed. 

“Need supplies,” Ian mentioned, securing his grip once again, above Mickey’s head. He could feel a pit in his stomach full of need and desperate hope that Mickey would have what they needed. 

“There’s- shit, KY in the drawer...” Mickey pointed haphazardly at a bedside table, adorned with only a lamp and a small, framed picture of Yevgeny (which Ian promptly but carefully laid down flat). He shuffled around a few papers, a book, a pack of smokes and more than a handful of lighters, until finally his hand grabbed a small cylindrical tube, and a grin took over his kiss swollen lips.  “You gonna keep taking your sweet ass time or you gonna get on me, Fish?” Mickey asked, ever impatient and demanding. 

“Shut the fuck up.” It was more of a mumble that came out of Ian’s mouth as he brought the tube over, once again sitting down on top of Mickey. 

“Fuck,” Mickey whined- and solidified what Ian already knew; Mickey wanted him bossy. It wasn’t difficult to see - by now, Ian had let go of his wrists, but they were still above his head, not so much as twitching from their position. 

Ian sat back on top of Mickey, and took a moment to take him in, to stare. Because he knew that Mickey wouldn’t fight it - for once - wouldn’t bark at him, or tease, or mock - he just laid there, spread out underneath him. With his lips slightly parted, swollen from Ian's teeth and tongue, pupils blown, hair already a mess from Ian’s fingers. His cheeks were flushed, a smear of blood on his lip from their previous fight, nearly the same color as the marks Ian had left along his neck, purple and red bruises developing over his pale skin. 

Ian sighed, unable to stop himself from diving down for another kiss. Mickey responded enthusiastically, but the way Ian quickly broke the contact dragged a low whine from the base of his throat. 

“If you’re gonna wait any longer, I’ll fucking do it myself,” Mickey complained, impatiently attempting to roll his hips upwards. Immediately, Ian caught his face in one of his hands, four fingers digging into one cheek, thumb into the other. 

“What was that?” Ian asked, face hovering over Mickey’s, a strand of red hair brushing across his forehead. 

“I said,” Mickey started, as Ian tightened his grip. “Fuck me, you fucking coward.” Before Ian could react, he felt something wet hit his cheek, and he realized that Mickey had spit into his face. 

“What the f-” Ian flinched, a second of silence passing when he brought his hand up to his own cheek to feel the saliva. When he looked back at Mickey, he was frowning, but there was something else in his eyes, too - a challenge, a request? Mischief, perhaps. “How about you turn over?” The tone of his voice didn’t leave much room for disagreement, but Mickey didn’t seem to mind. 

Ian moved off of Mickey, who didn’t waste any time obeying the order, getting up onto his knees and his hands. Ian reached over to grab his wrists and pull them forwards, causing his upper body to fall flat against the bed, cheek pressed against the sheets.  Ian bit his lip; the sight of Mickey so vulnerable and so very literally open ignited a hellfire in his belly, roaring bright and red and blinding. He ran a hand up Mickey's spine, watching the way his muscles contracted as he shuddered; the way his skin glistened with sticky warm sweat. 

"The body on you, Jesus Christ," Ian sighed, pleased with himself when he heard Mickey take a sharp inhale of air, releasing it out raggedly when Ian’s hand dragged past the cleft of his ass. 

“Take a fucking picture, fuck,” Mickey spat defiantly. Ian didn’t think much of it, his hand was there and Mickey was being especially mouthy, so when he raised his hand and brought it back down with a loud thwack, he caught them both by surprise. “Je-sus,” Mickey groaned- empowering Ian just a little more. 

“Don’t, uh, don’t back talk me?” He didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it did anyway, and Mickey snorted, like he had any right to; face down and ass up and spread out for Ian like he was a corner girl. 

“That a question?” Mickey laughed, and Ian felt a niggling of annoyance perforating his chest. So, he did what he wanted- which was to land another smack, this time even harder, leaving behind a mirror image of his palm. 

“What’d I say, Mikhailo? Don’t. Fucking. Back talk.”  Mickey’s tongue appeared, swiping across his bottom lip, his nose contorted against his bicep as he crossed his wrists, fingers brushing the pillows above his head.  “Good,” Ian hummed at Mickey’s silence, as he picked up the tube of KY, squeezing the gel out onto his fingers before he placed his dry hand into the small of Mickey’s back, giving the soft skin a few soothing strokes before he pressed one of the slick fingers against Mickey’s entrance. 

“Fuck,” Mickey hiccuped; Ian didn’t stop until his knuckle forced him to. Then he stayed still for a minute, letting Mickey get used to the feeling. A part of him wanted to ask how often Mickey did this - alone or with other men, but he figured that it was hardly a good time to bring it up. Besides, the further into this that they got, the more insecure he felt - not about his body, or anything - more so about his actions. He needed Mickey to like this. 

They both seemed to put their argument on the shelf as Ian got Mickey ready, the room filled with the sighs and grunts that Mickey did his best to keep inside. Each one spurred Ian on, created a warmth in his chest; he added another finger, and Mickey cursed, pushing back against him. Finally, he pulled out, slightly amused at the whine Mickey gave. 

“How do you want it?” Ian asked, his voice once again firm, as he picked up the tube of KY, preparing himself. He knew that they were deep in their twisted fight - argument, roles - whatever; but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything without making sure that Mickey wanted it. Without making sure that he was giving him exactly what he was craving. That was all Ian wanted to do right now. 

“You need a fucking instruction manual?” Mickey quipped, moving his head so he could bury his face in the sheets, his back curving, presenting Ian with the perfect position. 

Ian grabbed one of Mickey’s asscheeks in his hand, slowly tightening the hold until he was digging his short nails into the pale, bruisable flesh - until the skin was flushed, decorated with marks shaped like half-moons. 

“важко. покарай мене,” a muffled few words came from Mickey, followed by a yelp when Ian delivered a smack to his upper thigh. 

“English, Mikhailo.” Mickey groaned; a groan Ian recognized - annoyed, frustrated - although with a deeper tone, hoarser, needier. 

“As hard as you fucking can - god, just fuck me,” Mickey begged, face still buried in the cream colored sheets. Ian hummed, getting up onto the bed, and taking his place behind Mickey. He placed the tip against Mickey’s slick opening, but paused there, opting to let one of his hands slide over his cheeks, and down his back, nails scratching the skin.  “Fuck,” Mickey breathed - or at least Ian thought so. He couldn’t quite tell. 

“Hard, huh? Until you can’t breathe?” Ian questioned, the deep tone of his voice a direct contrast to the way his fingers were sliding through the black locks of hair, gently massaging his scalp. And a contrast to the way that he felt. This was new - him being in power, him having the upper hand. 

“Yes,” Mickey promised. Ian hummed. 

“Good.” With that, Ian gathered Mickey’s hair in a tight grip, keeping his other hand on the small of his back as he rolled his hips forwards - slowly, of course, to begin with, letting them both get used to the feeling of being connected in this way. Mickey probably made some foul noises that would have made Ian come straight away, but he couldn’t hear them over his own; his own groans, his own mumbled curses - his own _thoughts._

This was what it was supposed to be like, wasn’t it? Ian had had sex before, but never like this. He had never entered someone, felt their most intimate muscles hug his cock, and felt as if it wasn’t enough - felt as if it was not nearly enough. Would never be enough. Felt as if he wanted to drown in the feeling, the scent, the sounds - wanted to drown in the person. He wanted to drown in Mickey. In so many ways. 

Was this what it was like to be in love? 

Ian pushed the thought aside as his hip bones pressed against Mickey’s cheeks. He couldn’t help the hoarse chuckle that left his lips, his hand going back to massaging Mickey’s scalp for a moment before he reaffirmed his grip. 

“The fuck you laughing at?” Mickey breathed, eyes closed when he turned his head again, lips against his upper arm. Ian couldn’t very well tell him that the chuckle was a cauldron of light, happy, and gleeful feelings bubbling over, so he responded with a sudden slap to his ass, dragging a hiccup from Mickey’s lips. 

His grip around Mickey’s hair grew tighter, his other hand now on his hip, keeping him steady as he pulled out, still keeping a slow pace. Then, without warning, he got to work - he rolled his hips, shoving into Mickey, not giving him a second to react before he repeated the motion - again, and again. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” It didn’t take very long until Mickey started repeating the words, burying his face in the sheets once again; Ian could see his hands above his head, reaching for a pillow to clutch in his grasp. “You’re fucking - you’re - shit.” Ian thought those were the words, anyway - he couldn’t quite tell past the sheets, and the gravely tone. 

“I’m what?” Ian asked, adding some weight to Mickey’s head when he turned, pushing the side of his face deeper into the sheets, contorting his features. “Fucking you?” 

“Fucking - you’re a f - you’re a d - fuck you,” Mickey tried a few times to get the words out, and any comeback Ian might have had on his tongue was ripped away when he felt Mickey deliberately clench around him. 

“Fucking - shit, don’t fucking do that,” Ian cursed, delivering a rough, punishing slap to his ass, before moving his second hand to Mickey’s neck - Mickey’s opinion clear by the way he curved his back, pushing back onto Ian, craving more. “Gonna make me come first, that’s not fucking happening,” Ian panted. Then he thought perhaps he should - perhaps Mickey wanted him to fuck him until he was satisfied, himself, then then take care of Mickey - put himself first, like a boss would - but Ian couldn’t bring himself to do that. “Stop that,” Ian grunted along with his thrusts, using a finger to pull Mickey’s bottom lip out from in between his teeth. “Don’t hold that shit in, tell me - tell me,” he commanded through a hiccup, slowing down slightly, so that he could focus on the force of his hips instead. “Tell me,” he asked again, and another gurgle made its way out of Mickey’s throat. “Please tell me,” he found himself begging, closing his eyes. He needed to know. Needed to know that it was good enough, that he was making Mickey feel as good as he deserved to feel. God, that man deserved everything. 

“It’s so fucking good,” Mickey sobbed - no tears were coming down his cheeks, but the way his voice broke, the pattern of his breathing was a sob. “It’s so fucking - god, I’ve never - oh fucking - “ Mickey’s voice completely broke when Ian let go of his head and neck, moving both hands to hips, the thrusts subsiding. He stopped pulling out and pushing back in; instead, he stayed completely buried inside of Mickey’s body, rolling his hips in various ways, just pushing and pushing. 

Ian thought Mickey mumbled something along the lines of ‘ _ right fucking there _ ’ but he couldn’t quite tell. 

Ian could feel it in his hips, his thighs, his belly. He felt it -Mickey- everywhere. So good; tingling and pulsing at his muscles. His mouth hung open as he pulled back just enough to watch himself slide back in, the way Mickey’s body easily and greedily accepted his intrusion. The handprint, still pink on Mickey’s skin, pulled another guttural groan from somewhere deep in his chest, and he had to close his eyes to keep himself steady. 

“You're just so fucking-,” he tried to vocalize, but realized that there wasn’t any words that would do it justice. Nothing he could say could make Mickey realize how long he’d waited, how much he’d thought about it and dreamt about it and wished for it. And it was happening. And it was better than he could have imagined. 

“Getting close, Ian,” Mickey breathed, voice coming out punchy with every thrust that Ian delivered. And thank god for it, because Ian was so close he could almost take it. “Fucking- put your hands on me.” 

“Ask nicely,” Ian demanded, his own voice sounding as if he were trying to keep his balance on a tightrope. 

“Christ... please,” Mickey relented, voice muffled by the pillow he had his face shoved into. “Please, put your hands on me.” 

Ian nodded, even if Mickey couldn’t see it, and pulled out of him. Before Mickey could get too deep into his protests, Ian flipped him around, roughly, and Mickey landed with a thud on his back. His eyes were wide but glassy, just as drunk looking as Ian felt, and it would have taken an army to keep him from sliding back in, mouth falling open at the new angle- new way Mickey’s body squeezed him just right. 

He wrapped a hand around Mickey, giving it a few exploratory strokes, completely mesmerized by the sheer fucking hardness of it. He let the hand holding himself up slide against the sheets, staying just upright enough as to not disturb his ministrations, but close enough that he could moan into Mickey’s mouth as he kissed him hard. 

Mickey, for his part, moaned right back and wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck and his legs around Ian’s waist, apparently too far gone to contribute to their movements. Ian didn’t care. He’d move a whole mountain if it meant that he would be able to see the way Mickey’s eyes clamped shut and his teeth bit his bottom lip white. 

Mickey’s body drew tight, tight, tight- back arching up off of the bed as Ian felt him pulse in his hand, finishing up his own belly and chest. He groaned, long and low before he collapsed back down, panting and shaking like he was fucking dying. 

“You want me to stop, or...” god, he hoped he wouldn’t have to. 

“No, dipshit. Finish,” Mickey told him, voice conveying just how stupid he thought Ian was for even suggesting it. 

“Thank f-” Ian muttered, the rest of the word muffled as he went back in for another fiery kiss; the hand that he wasn’t using to hold himself up, he moved down to Mickey’s hip, keeping a tight grip as he pulled out, easing back in, making sure to be a little bit more gentle with Mickey’s spent body. 

It didn’t take more than two or three thrusts before he buried his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck, muffling the various embarrassing sounds that left his throat. He collapsed on top of him, hands digging into his ass, pulling him onto his cock as every fiber of his being seemingly exploded. 

He had never felt like this before - he had come countless times, of course, alone - and with others - but never like this. He had never seen stars, never felt his chest ripped open with pleasure, never felt the urge to climb inside of the man beneath him. He could feel Mickey’s fingers digging into his ass, tugging on the strands of hair at the back of his head. As Ian slowly came down from his high, his breathing evened out, syncing up with Mickey’s. He kept his eyes closed, breathing in the scent of Mickey’s… of Mickey. Bathing in the scent of sweat, cigarettes, and expensive leather; drinking in the feeling of his skin against his own; appreciating the fact that this wasn’t a dream - he had wanted Mickey for so, so long - longer than he had realized before. Now he was here, on top of him, both of them spent. Ian wasn’t sure how they had gotten to this point, but he surely wasn’t about to complain. 

For a while, they laid there - arms around each other, Ian still inside of Mickey, both of them thirsty, sweaty, and exhausted. 

Of course, Mickey was the one to ruin it. 

“I say you could come in me?” It could easily have been a joke, a teasing comment - if Mickey’s voice had been teasing, but it wasn’t. It was the same annoyed, bitter tone he had greeted Ian with by the front door.  Ian’s heart sank to the floor. He’d been buried to the hilt in Mickey just a minute before- his body was still tacky with sweat and semen, his legs still felt like jello, and up until the second Mickey had to go and open his big fat fucking mouth, he was thinking he might be in love. 

“You serious right now?” Ian scoffed, raising up on his knees to glare down at him. Mickey’s eyes hardened as he rolled away, standing up in a hurry to put his boxers back up. 

“You think I’m some bitch you can just drop your load in?” Mickey barked, and it spurred Ian back into himself to stand up and laugh out loud, mirthlessly and sarcastically, hands on his hips and sick still out, because fuck Mickey if he thought Ian was going anywhere. 

“Oh, I definitely think you’re a fucking bitch,” Ian spat, and rolled his eyes when Mickey only raised two middle fingers in response. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck me, right? Mm, too bad I already fucked you.” 

“So what the fuck you hanging around here for? We’re done, so put that,” he said, waving his hand around frantically in front of Ian’s groin, “away. And get the hell out.” 

“Oh. My. God,” Ian groaned, throwing his head back and tugging frantically at his hair before sliding his fingers roughly down his face. “How many times do we have to have this same fucking argument, Mickey? I’m not fucking leaving. You know why?” 

“Because you gotta fucking death wish apparently,” Mickey growled. 

“Because I know you’re not really mad at me, you emotional toddler!”

“Who the fuck else?” Mickey asked, while getting the pack of cigarettes from his nightstand, and lighting one up, avoiding Ian’s eyes. 

“Exactly,” Ian barked. “Who the fuck else is around? I am, and you know I’ll stay around, so you take it out on me, and it’s not fucking okay.” 

“You don’t gotta stay around, how many times have I told you to get the fuck outta my house?” 

“And I told you I’m not fucking leaving until you calm down and use your words like a fucking adult.” 

Ian wasn’t sure how long they fought after that - but it started in the bedroom, in the middle of the night, Mickey in his boxers, and Ian naked. It travelled to the bathroom, Mickey in the shower, Ian standing outside, half-dressed, both of them yelling over the sound of the water. Eventually, they were dressed, the dark night outside of the windows fading to a pale, foggy grey, and they were in the kitchen, Mickey brewing coffee, slamming the cupboards with a lot more force than necessary. 

“You’re such a pathetic little boy, you can’t even handle processing your emotions like a-”

“Ain’t you got somewhere to be?” Mickey interrupted Ian, both of their voices hoarse from the hours of arguing. Ian hummed in question, eyebrows knitted into a frown. “Five thirty - ‘fraid you gotta go to work. Much as I’m enjoying your company.” 

“God dammit,” Ian sighed, lifting his wrist to get a look at his watch. “This isn’t over. I’m coming back tonight.” 

“Like fuck you are! I would literally rather set myself on fire than see your stupid fucking face at my door again.”

“Yeah, well I don’t particularly wanna see your dumb ass either, but I’m coming anyway. Only ‘cause you’re a good lay,” Ian smirked, proud of himself when Mickey’s eyes narrowed further. 

“Wish  _ you _ were,” Mickey shrugged. 

“Oh, okay, sure, Mickey,” Ian spat sarcastically, stepping up to Mickey and gripping his hips tightly before silencing him with a kiss. Mickey responded immediately, wrapping his arms around Ian’s neck and melting into him, going boneless and pliant as Ian pushed him against the countertop, working his way down his neck to leave wet, sloppy open mouthed kisses and back up. 

They breathed into each other’s mouths for a moment, staring intently before Ian pressed one last chaste kiss and stepped back. “Best fuck you ever got,” he said, and turned on his heel toward the door. 

“Stay gone, Fish!” Mickey yelled just as the door closed behind him. 

As Ian drove towards the estate, he first turned the radio up loud in an attempt to get him to drown out his thoughts. Then one of Mickey’s favorite songs came on, and he promptly turned it off, refusing to expose his ears to the garbage. 

Ian arrived at Aleksandr’s place, but he didn’t have enough time to knock before the front door flew open, Iggy - who was clearly on his way out - freezing. 

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. 

“What?” Ian questioned. Iggy didn’t have to answer, because the next thing they both knew, a loud, demanding voice rang from inside the house. 

“If you had stayed away from my boys, they wouldn’t be infected with your disgusting morals and weak backbone.” Ian didn’t know what Terry was doing at the house at six o’clock in the morning, but it couldn’t be good - clearly wasn’t good - and all he wanted to do was to turn around and go back. 

“Go,” Ian nodded for Iggy to leave, but Iggy shook his head, and followed him into the house. 

“Mick’s gonna bash my skull in if I leave you with ‘em.” Ian couldn’t quite argue, nor did he have a choice but to enter the lion’s den - thankfully with a Milkovich behind him, even if it wasn’t his preferred one. Actually - right now, he was. Fuck Mickey. 

Terry was red in the face when Ian spotted him, arms outstretched and leaning over a very tired looking Aleks- leaning up against the arm of the couch with the side of his head tucked into his palm. Terry continued his tirade, spitted as he screeched, flailing wildly, filled with so much hate that Ian could practically feel it coming off of him in waves. 

“And you!” Terry bellowed, eyes trained on Ian suddenly, seeming to grow harder, if that were possible. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“He’s been assisting me,” Aleks yawned, seemingly unphased- maybe a little too used to- Terry’s antics. 

“Mickey’s got a fucking fag looking after you?” Terry mock laughed. “Careful he doesn’t fuck you while you’re asleep.”  Ian didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know that he made anything obvious- he was always careful. Kept his sexuality close to his chest. Took extra precautions. He was smart about it, he thought. 

“He’s not a fag, pops,” Iggy chimed in, casually picking at his nails. “Caught him with a skirt bent over the hood of his car a couple days ago. She was howling real good,” Iggy smiled and knocked into Ian’s shoulder meaningfully. “' _Oh, I’m so wet, Ian. Your cock is so-_ ',” 

“Enough,” Terry commanded. “Don’t change nothing. I still don’t trust him.” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ian spoke, and immediately regretted it. He was usually so good about keeping his mouth shut- but between the shock of both Terry screaming at him and Iggy defending him, his head was swimming, and he couldn’t stop himself. “Is there something I can do to change your mind?”

Terry sneered at him, seemingly thrown off by Ian’s relaxed tone. Though not thrown off in the way that would bring Ian any kind of pleasure - more so thrown off like a lion attacking a gazelle, surprised by a zebra walking by. A new target. 

“You can keep that Irish mouth shut for one, less spoken to, did I speak to you?” 

“Now… yes?” Ian guessed, hearing Iggy cough behind him, in order to cover up a chuckle. 

“Terentius, leave the boy alone unless he actually did something wrong,” Aleksandr asked, ending the request with a coughing fit - a minor one, considering his condition. 

“Unless he did something - the very sight of him is wrong, he’s evidence that Mikhailo is just like you - can’t be trusted as high up as he is, he’s got no brain for business. All he’s been doing since you went on vacation and I took over is complain. He’s been yellin’, disobeying orders - actin’ like a brat. Thinkin’ I’ll have one of the other capos bash his face in real good. Maybe he’ll learn somethin’.” 

“You can’t do that,” Ian cut in, immediately regretting it. Terry wasn’t the only one staring him down now - Aleksandr didn’t look too impressed, either. He wasn’t supposed to talk back, but the thought of Mickey’s face all bloody and bruised - again - had sent him over the edge. 

“I can do whatever I want to whoever I want, so I suggest you sow that mouth shut before I make someone else do it,” Terry spit, walking towards Ian until he was close enough that Ian could feel the hateful saliva on his cheek.  Ian took a step back, trying to disengage, to think of another way to get out of it- to get Mickey out of it. To spare him from any pain, as much of an asshole as he was. If there was just some way that-

“I’ll do it,” Ian said as soon as the thought popped in his head. 

“Do what?” Terry snarled. 

“Let me fuck him up for you. Put him in his place if one of his guys gets ordered to do it from higher up, don’t you think? Send a real message,” Ian continued, and Terry watched him, surprisingly pensively. “Get me on your good side, won’t it? Plus,” Ian gestured to his face- still bruised and cut from the night before- from Mickey himself, “he did this to me. So, maybe fair is fair?” 

“Fair is fair? That what you think?” Terry scoffed, and Ian gulped down the extra spit gathering on his tongue. 

“I think you need something done, and you got a grunt right in front of you, more than willing to do your dirty work.” 

The thought of hurting Mickey- more than he already had- churned his stomach in the worst way. He didn’t want to use his fists against him, even if he’d done it less than twelve hours before, but if he did it, he’d at least ensure that Mickey wouldn’t walk away with broken bones. Plus, it kind of seemed that fighting was some fucked up form of foreplay, and well, he wouldn’t complain about it. He just hoped that by offering this, he wouldn’t be putting himself permanently in Terry’s bed. 

Terry was quiet for long enough that Ian was starting to wonder whether he was waiting for him to say something. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, giving him a nod. 

“If I see him tomorrow and he ain’t got busted ribs and a swollen face, you’re getting chained and thrown into the ocean.” Then he took a step closer. “And I don’t know what you think of these spineless fags,” he gestured weakly to Aleksandr and Iggy. “But my threats ain’t empty.” After that, he walked out of the house, but not before calling: “Ignatius! You’re drivin’ me.” 

When the door slammed shut behind them both, Ian sighed, dipping his head, letting his eyes fall closed for a second. He knew that he was at work, but he needed a second to breathe - just one. 

“Looks like Mikhailo ain’t the only one with a good head on his shoulders.” Aleksandr’s rough voice brought Ian’s attention back, and he took a few steps over towards the couch where he sat, the oxygen tube hissing every few seconds as he breathed. 

“I’m sorry, sir?” Ian questioned carefully, making sure not to get on Aleksandr’s bad side after the dumpster fire that had just gone down with his brother. 

“You’re protecting him - Mikhailo,” he clarified, while picking a cigarette out of a pack, lighting it up - but not before moving the oxygen tubing aside. There had to be some kind of metaphor in there somewhere. 

“I… I’m gonna have to beat him up,” Ian said. 

“ Так, tак. Правда. But you’re making sure he’s walking away as unscathed as possible. What do you think I have been doing all of these years?” Aleksandr paused to take another hit of the cigarette, continuing to stare Ian down. “Thank you for caring about him.” 

“Hard not to...” Ian murmured, cupping at the back of his neck, trying to look anywhere but at Aleks. From the corner of his eye, he saw his soft grin anyway. 

✦✦✦

Ian was subdued when he pulled into Mickey’s driveway later that night. It was barely eight thirty, so he wasn’t exactly surprised to find the house dark and Mickey’s car missing. Luckily, he happened to know which rock outside was secretly broken into two and housed a small gap inside - just large enough for a spare house key to fit in. 

Ian unlocked the door, and left it wide open before he made his way back to his car, getting the heavy cardboard box out of the backseat. He wasn’t sure how long it took to move it from the driveway and in through the front door, but it wasn’t an easy task. He had just had to go for the heaviest one, hadn’t he? Just to be as much of an asshole to Mickey as possible. He hadn’t realized that the person he was really punishing was himself. 

Ian huffed and puffed as he got the box through the living room and into the office above the garage - or at least that was what Mickey called it. The room housed little more than a desk for him to do paperwork at, and some workout equipment. Ian wasted no time tearing the box open, and getting up onto Mickey’s desk chair; he knocked along the ceiling to make sure that he found a beam before he secured a large hook. Then came the task of actually lifting the ninety five pounds up the few inches it needed to go to reach the hook. It took a while, and various different methods, but finally, Ian got it. 

“What the fuck!?” Ian had just kicked the empty cardboard box to the side and started admiring his work when Mickey’s voice made him jump. He had a revolver in his hand, clearly having been on the hunt for an intruder. “The fuck you get in here? And the fuck is this?” 

“I used your spare key,” Ian admitted. Mickey raised his eyebrows, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. Not in a good way; rather in a way that said he was gathering all of his power to keep from bashing Ian’s face in right then and there. “Oh - this, I uh… I was tired of being your punching bag, so I got you an actual… punching bag. You’re welcome.” 

“You are the actual dumbest mother fucker I think I’ve ever met,” Mickey deadpanned, bolstering his weapon in the waistband of his trousers. 

“Okay-,” Ian interjected, but Mickey kept going. 

“No. The actual dumbest. Your IQ has to be less than forty.” 

“Says the man who saw my car parked in your actual drive way and still came in locked and fucking loaded. Look, can we please just not do this right now? Had the worst day...” Ian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Aleks okay?” Mickey asked, immediately on high alert, looking like he was ready to kick up gravel the whole way to his house. 

“He’s fine, Mick. Calm down,” Ian assured him, taking a step closer to give Mickey’s biceps a squeeze. 

“Okay so what’s-,”

“Your dad was there.”  Mickey pulled back to look into Ian’s eyes, concern lines across his forehead. Ian gripped him harder, afraid that if he let go Mickey would storm off- shut him out like he always did. But even after their rocky night, all Ian wanted was to keep him close. 

“What he say?”

Ian took a deep breath, blowing it out in a steady stream across Mickey’s face. “About you, or about me?” 

“About you,” Mickey demanded immediately, voice hard and cold. 

“S’not a big deal,” Ian shrugged, trying to downplay how scared he’d been earlier in the day. 

“Then spit it out, Fish.” 

“Called me- called me a fag. But it’s-,” Ian stuttered when Mickey ripped himself away biting at his lips and flaring his nostrils. “It’s fine. I don’t care. Your, uh, your brother cleared it up anyway. Told your dad some story about me sleeping with some girl. It’s fine. He bought it.” 

“Don’t fucking matter if he bought it! He’s always got some shit to say. About everyone and everything. Especially if it’s-,” Mickey seemed to catch himself, shaking his head and cursing under his breath. Talking to himself as if Ian weren’t even there. 

“If it’s what?” Mickey didn’t answer, still shaking his head. Ian stepped up to him again, cupping his jaw gently, lifting his face to meet his eyes. “If it’s what?” 

“If it’s- if it’s mine...” Mickey looked down, even with his face tipped up, and Ian clicked his tongue at him seeming so shy. 

“I am you know. Yours.” 

Mickey’s hand came up to cover Ian’s, letting his fingers slide in and lace together. There was something akin to a smile on his lips, soft and sweet, but sad too. Like he was thinking that he couldn’t really have this- this thing that they shared. So Ian did the only thing he could think of to make it better. He leaned down and kissed him, pouring out all of his stress, but also all of his relief at being there. Just being with Mickey was all he found himself wanting anymore- and he’s take it however and whenever he could get it. 

“Yeah. I- me too,” Mickey agreed once they’d pulled apart, and gave Ian’s face a gentle pat of his own. “So what’d that rat bastard say about me?” 

It was Ian’s turn to take a step back, ready to let Mickey throw a tantrum, because he would if he were in his shoes. If his dad hated him so much that he would order him beaten black and blue. 

“He, um, said you were being bratty...”

“Ptf. Yeah, I’m a fucking brat. Okay.” 

“Said he was gonna have you beaten for it.”  Mickey fixed his jaw, clenching it along with his fists, but ultimately gave a shrug and a nod. 

“So fucking what? Not the first time he’s had the other capos for his dirty work.” 

And shit. Then came the hard part. The part where Ian had to tell him that he’d been given a task- one that he fucking volunteered for. He hated himself more than he ever had, and that was really saying something. So he took a deep breath and let it out. 

“Not the other capos. Me.” 

“What?” Mickey sounded genuinely confused, and looked the part as well. His mouth settled into a deep frown, lines from overuse showing against his skin. Ian wanted to kiss every one of them away, if only Mickey would let him. 

“Told him I’d do it,” Ian mumbled, knowing full well how shitty it all sounded. 

“The fuck would you do that for? What, didn’t get enough hits in last night?” Mickey yelled, sounding more than angry, but it was more than that. He sounded betrayed.

“It’s not like that,” Ian was quick to assure him, but those words did nothing to make the whole situation sound any less incriminating, and he knew that. 

“What the fuck is it like - you hear they want me beat up and you’re first in line?!”

“Of course!” Ian took a step forward and grabbed ahold of his biceps once again, managing to keep the grip despite the way that Mickey was struggling to get out of it. “Look at me - can you fucking look at me?!” Ian moved one hand to the back of Mickey’s neck, the other one to his face, quite reminiscent of the hold he had kept on him last night right before Mickey had spit in his face. Mickey struggled, but without being able to move his head, he didn’t have much leverage, so finally he sighed, glaring up at Ian. “You think I wanna see this beautiful face bruised and bloody? I don’t! But like hell I’m letting someone who doesn’t care about you do it - if it’s me, we can make sure that it looks a lot worse than it is. Keep your ribs intact…” 

Little by little, Mickey seemed to relax in Ian’s hold, his eyes wandering around the room until Ian let go of the hold around his face, laying his palm against his cheek instead. Mickey seemed to lean into it, and Ian wasn’t sure if it was intentional, or just… a reflex. An instinct. Natural. 

“Make sure your eyes don’t swell shut so I don’t have to go a week without looking into them," Ian continued, voice softer now. 

“You’re a fucking skirt…” Mickey mumbled, looking down to the floor. Ian could have shot something back at him, but he found himself wanting to just leave it - he felt like letting Mickey have the last word. Just this time. Besides, he looked really fucking good in the dim lighting of the naked lightbulb above them, and he thought that perhaps he just had to kiss him, or his throat would just dry out completely. “Alright, man, let’s go.” Mickey suddenly seemed to shake off whatever shyness had come over him, and he tore himself out of Ian’s hold, backing up a few steps. “The fuck you waiting for, Fish?” 

“What - now?” Ian asked stupidly, looking around as if Mickey could possibly be talking to anybody else. “You want me to beat you up now?” 

“No time like the fucking present, aye?” 

“But I’m…” ‘ _ Not in the mood. Not angry. Not upset. I just kind of feel like being soft right now. I want to kiss you and hold you and do any other things that you would scoff at, but I know you really enjoy.’  _ “I don’t want to. Can we do it tomorrow?” 

“You want me to show up with a freshly beaten face tomorrow, proving that you delayed your assignment until the last possible moment, and therefore ain’t a good soldier?” Ian grinned. “What?”

“ _ ‘Therefore’ _ . Don’t hear you use a lot of big words.” He liked it. He already knew Mickey was smart, but something about him using words like that really got him going. Maybe he was deranged. 

“Fucking hell,” Mickey sighed. Then he swung his fist and Ian was on the floor. 

“What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian screeched, cupping his nose when he felt a warm trickle of blood pour out. He stood up and tipped his head forward to stem the flow. 

“You’re such a pussy. Jesus,” Mickey told him with a disappointed shake of his head. 

“Oh, I’m sorry I don’t wanna hit my-,”

“Don’t even fucking say whatever it is about to come outta your mouth, faggot,” Mickey sneered. Ian had been called that word more than once- even earlier that day, but truthfully, it never bothered him all that much. But hearing it come from Mickey- that closeted basket case, Ian saw red.

He took a step forward, putting all of his weight behind his hit- the force of his knuckles knocking Mickey’s head back. He let out a grunt and whipped himself toward Ian, taking another swing of his own. Neither one of them was particularly a ‘clean,’ fighter, as evidenced by the range of elbows and knees and kicks and bites delivered to each other. 

Before Ian knew it, they were both on the floor, Mickey on his lap with his fingers pressed tightly into Ian’s throat, and his own fingers around Mickey’s. They sat like that, for what must have been a good while, because Ian’s vision started to blur around the edges- but thankfully, Mickey let go when Ian did, rolling off to the side. They both laid there panting, bleeding at cursing as they stared up at the ceiling. 

“I was supposed to kick your ass,” Ian breathed. “Not get in a full on fight.” 

“Yeah, well. If you wouldn’a been a bitch about it...” 

“Your dad gonna be okay with us showing up with matching busted faces?” 

“You think I’d get away with it if I showed up looking like this and you were just fine? Hell no, he wanted us to kill each other, man.” Mickey’s chest rose and fell shakily, deep breaths going in and rattling back out. When Ian heard him groan, he turned to look, to take stock of the damage he’d done, and it made him wince. 

“You look like a wet rat,” Mickey told him, still breathing hard, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. And it was infectious. Ian smiled right back, laughing at the absurdity of his life. If anyone would have told him that he would be there, blood dripping down his face, damage done by a guy he was- what- doing something with, he would never have believed them. So he laughed, even if it was wet and mottled by blood; he laughed. And so did Mickey.

After a minute, the laughter faded. Ian swallowed down some of the blood coating the inside of his mouth, and then he pushed himself up onto his elbow, hovering over Mickey. Mickey, who didn’t do anything but sniff to get rid of the blood cogging his nose; he stayed on the floor, eyes wandering over Ian’s features. 

“Do you mean it?” Ian found himself asking, while reaching a hand out to brush a strand of Mickey’s hair from his forehead. Mickey swallowed, the expressive eyebrows inching closer together, creating those shallow wrinkles of confusion in his forehead. 

“What?” He sighed, still out of breath. 

“Do you… do you think I’m not anything to you? I was about to say that you were my… whatever, and you stopped me. That how you feel?” 

It hardly took Ian by surprise when Mickey mumbled an irritated ‘ _ Christ, man _ ’ and got up from the floor. Ian knew that this was hardly a good time to bring it up - they had just been laughing together, he should be appreciating those moments, because they were turning out to be brief. But it bothered him - sure, Mickey had said that he was Ian’s, but that could mean a variety of different things. Maybe it wasn’t something that a lot of people would agree with - but knowing where they stood was more important to him than that. He wanted to know - wanted to be able to say what he and Mickey were to each other, even if he could only say it to himself. 

“Fish, why you always gotta ruin shit?” Mickey muttered as he made his way out of the room. Ian rolled his eyes and followed him through the house. 

“You don’t have to say what you think I wanna hear, I just wanna know,” Ian tried, as they made their way up the staircase, Mickey pulling his suspenders off of his shoulders, starting to unbutton his shirt as he made his way towards the bathroom. 

“Oh, you just wanna know, huh? What, you wanna be boyfriends or some shit?” Mickey asked, turning the shower on before letting his shirt fall to the floor, starting to unzip his slacks. It should really be illegal for anyone to look that good, especially after a long day of work and a physical altercation. Suddenly Ian craved the feeling of digging his fingers into the soft flesh. “Gallagher!” Mickey called loudly, causing Ian to flinch. 

“Well - I... I…” He couldn’t remember what they had been arguing about. At all. The steam from the running shower was slowly filling up the bathroom, and Mickey was in front of him, clad in nothing but a pair of boxers. “Can we pick this up later?” Ian tried. “Think I need a shower, too.” 

Mickey grinned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "Where are you going?"   
> "Where am I going?"  
> "Where am I going?" 
> 
> "Hard. Punish me." 
> 
> "Yes, yes. True."


	19. nineteen

Ian fastened his cufflink securely in place, tugging at his sleeve with a satisfied nod. The suspenders, something he never thought he’d get used to wearing, let alone enjoy wearing, came next, clipped in place at the waistband of his dark washed trousers. He took stock of himself in the mirror, noticing that his hair was a little less than unkempt; it didn’t much matter, Mickey seemed to have a never ending supply of pomade at his disposal, and Ian didn’t hesitate to dip his finger in and take a decent sized scoop. He twisted from side to side, taking himself in from head to toe. 

He liked what he saw. 

He’d been making a decent chunk of change- even more so since he took over caring for Aleksandr. Perks of being close to the boss, Mickey had told him. And after several months, wallet fat and bills paid, he’d decided to spend a little bit on himself. And he didn’t hate it. 

A low whistle came from behind him, and he smiled to himself without turning. A finger traced up his suspenders from the back, starting down low and ticking its way up to his shoulder. 

“Damn, Fish. You do all this for me?” Mickey teased, his voice light and playful, which was becoming less and less of an occurrence as the days passed by; each one with Aleks growing weaker and weaker. 

“Nah, for Aleks. He needs a little eye candy in his life, don’t you think?” 

Mickey rolled his eyes, but ultimately grinned and punched at Ian’s shoulder, and Ian couldn’t have asked for more. He twisted around then, stepping up to Mickey and dropping his hands for the place he swore was made for them- Mickey’s waist. As time stretched on, as it tends to do, Mickey became more and more comfortable with his touches; nearly three months since they’d decidedly not had the conversation about what they were to each other. But it was okay, Ian had decided long ago. He didn’t need Mickey to say it- at least not until he was ready. 

“You clean up good,” Mickey murmured, leaning into Ian’s touch and giving him back one of his own in the form of wrapping his arms around Ian’s neck (Ian particularly liked it this way- made it easier to tease Mickey about being so much shorter than him). 

“Mmm,” Ian hummed, pecking at Mickey’s lips with a smack. “You’re not so bad yourself.” The words were mumbled right as he went in for another kiss, tightening his hold on Mickey’s waist to pull him against his chest. He appreciated the content hums that the touches pulled from Mickey’s throat as he broke away from his lips, placing another kiss to his cheek, and then his forehead. 

As his lips landed above his right eyebrow, the air in between them seemed to change, their arms relaxing around each other. Ian started moving his left palm over Mickey’s back in a comforting motion, all the while knowing that nothing would be able to make him feel better. 

“You ready to go?” Ian murmured against his skin. Mickey sighed, dropping his face into Ian’s neck, silently asking to be held for just one more moment. 

✦✦✦

Ian drove them to Aleksandr’s, and for once, Mickey hadn’t argued about it. He didn’t say a single word on the way over, and for once, Ian didn’t push. He just kept his hand on his thigh, begging for the lump in his own throat to go away. 

When they made their way into the house, they were greeted by the usual crowd - and in a way, everything was the same. The foul jokes, the scent of cigarettes and cigars, the sound of clinking glasses of whiskey - but there was an air of fraudulency around them. They were trying. Whether they realized it or not, they were all trying. Wanting to make everything seem normal, wishing that they could enjoy the whiskey, the cigars, the cigarettes - or any of the food that was about to be served. 

God, Ian wished he could take Mickey’s hand. But he couldn’t. He had to keep his hands to himself, his back straight, and his face free of emotion - unless he was smiling or scowling. He knew how this worked now. 

“приємно бачити тебе, мій хлопче,” Aleksandr smiled, patting Mickey’s face affectionately, going to him just as quickly as he could, oxygen tank in tow. 

Ian knew enough by now, holding conversations with Aleks in Ukrainian everyday- even though Aleks regularly needed to correct him or help him limp along, to know that he was telling Mickey that he was happy to see him. 

“ти схожий на лайно,” Mickey told him earnestly, and Ian had to keep himself from openly chuckling at the way Aleks’ face lit up- even if Mickey was insulting him. 

“You’ve always been an asshole, Mikhailo,” he shook his head, but his words were dripping in fondness. 

“Yeah, well. Look who raised me,” Mickey sniffed and gave Aleks a pat of his own. 

“Ian,” he nodded, and Ian was struck by the fondness he showed for him as well- no longer cold and uncaring; no longer trying to prove to Ian that he was the boss. They were past that, and Ian would be lying if he said that he felt anything other than a familial love for him. 

“Sir,” he nodded back respectfully, remembering that there was a room full of men that wouldn’t understand the less than professional way he normally spoke to him. There were still rules, even if Ian could be considered a friend. 

Under other circumstances, the dinner would have been one like any other. There was a lot of food - most of which Ian strictly avoided. There was Ukrainian conversation that he barely understood half of. There was alcohol, smoke, laughter - and of course comments that Ian wished that he didn’t have to ignore. 

“I keep telling him the family’ll be a lot better off now without such a weakass in charge, huh, big brother?” Terry laughed loudly, a hand on the back of Aleksandr’s neck. Most of the men laughed, if only because they were expected to, but Ian felt sick. And he didn’t miss the look Aleksandr gave his younger brother. Not as if he was angry. Rather as if he pitied him.

Another few hours passed after that - Ian drank a glass of whiskey; Mickey drank three or four, accompanied by what had to be an entire pack of cigarettes. 

Eventually, the crowd started thinning out, people leaving one by one until the only guests left were Ian and Mickey. Ian had insisted on staying behind and cleaning up, but it was really just an excuse to let Mickey have some more time with Aleksandr. A ‘goodbye dinner’ - though no one had said it out loud - was a good idea in theory, but it didn’t leave much time to actually say goodbye. Not with so many people around. Not really. 

Sighing to himself, Ian rinsed the last of the stack of plates, then he wiped them down, and put them back into the cupboards. He took a lap through the dining room and the living room, but found that he had gotten everything. He wasn’t sure where Mickey was, but he was in no hurry to find him. Instead he looked through some more pictures, looked out the window, found a few books on a shelf that seemed interesting enough for him to read the back off. 

After an hour or so of wandering the house aimlessly, he slowly began to make his way to the second level, just wanting to make sure that they were okay. It wasn’t his intention to eavesdrop, not at all - but as soon as he neared the cracked balcony door, he tuned in their voices, and he couldn’t help it. 

“Ain’t that simple, Al,” Mickey sighed. Ian couldn’t see them, but could picture the smoke escaping out through his nostrils.

“Ah,” Aleksandr seemed to wave him off. “Fuck simple, Mikhailo. Know how much happier my life woulda’ been had I been less worried about what was simple? Stop worrying about what other people think.” Mickey breathed a sigh of amusement at that. 

“I don’t give a shit what people think,” Mickey cut it. “It’s about what’s gonna get me killed long ‘fore I’m old enough to drag an oxygen tube round with me.”

“Ah,” Aleksandr huffed once again, and Ian couldn’t help but feel the edges of his mouth twitching in amusement. “You and your man can handle yourselves in a fight.” Mickey let out a sound in between a chuckle and a sigh. “I don’t…” Aleksandr began, and Ian could feel a frown taking over his own features; he could hear the change in Aleksandr’s tone - the shake, the emotion. “Mikhailo, please don’t make the same mistakes that I did.” 

“This about Pablo?” Mickey asked. “You did good anyway, you found a good woman.” 

“That I did - one smart enough to get the hell out before it was too late,” Aleksandr agreed. “I had the option to be happy with a woman, ain’t never got the feeling you do.” Mickey didn’t say anything to that. Ian swallowed, wanting to wrap him up in his arms. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t ruin this - hell, he shouldn’t even be listening. This was private. “Even if you did, it ain’t about that, Mikhailo. Ain’t about men and women. It’s about finding the person who makes you feel like... “

“What?” 

“I don’t know.” Ian thought it might have been the very first time that he had ever heard Aleksandr Milkovich utter those three words. “That’s the point, ain’t it? Finding someone that makes you feel something you can’t put into words. Not sure we get two of those.” 

There was a long stretch of silence after that. Cold and eerie, and Ian wished he could just  _ see _ them, but he wouldn’t go out there. He wouldn’t step in and tell Mickey that it was okay- that he felt it, too, and they didn’t need words for what they had, but beyond that, he felt like he couldn’t wrap his head around what Aleksandr was saying. It all made so much sense, but so little at the same time, and he wondered if anyone else knew about Aleks’ secret. It hurt him to think that no one did- that he spent his whole life hiding. And from what? Being in love with someone that no one else approves of? What a horrible, hateful world. 

“Don’t listen to your father,” Aleks finally broke the silence. “He was never any good at anything anyway. Should’a killed him when he was a baby.” He chuckled, but Ian could tell he didn’t really think it was funny. It was only a way to make light of the situation- purely for Mickey’s benefit. 

He was just about to walk away- to let them have their moment, already having intruded far more than he should have - when he heard it. A shuddering gasp, a strangled sob. And it was coming from Mickey. His feet were moving before he could stop them, stepping out into the cool night air to see Mickey curled up at Aleks’ side, looking small and childlike. 

Aleks saw him before Mickey did, giving him a sort of half smile as he patted at Mickey’s back, fully letting him cry on his shoulder. 

“I’m so happy that you won’t be alone when I’m gone,” Aleks mused to Mickey, but he kept his eyes trained on Ian as he spoke. “Why don’t you let him take you home, now?” 

Mickey raised his head at that, eyes snapping to Ian as if he were the magnet to Mickey’s metal. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sat up straight, like he was ashamed that Ian had seen him like that- looking low and scared and sad. 

“It’s okay,” Ian whispered, voice crackly. “You don’t- I can go. I didn’t mean to…” he waved vaguely, but Aleks only shook his head. 

“You’re always welcomed where Mikhailo is, isn’t that right?” He jostled Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey gave a wet little laugh.  “Take him home, Ian. Be kind to him. Looks like he needs it. Ignatius will be back soon. I’ll be okay here for a little while.” 

So that’s what Ian did. Following a hug between Aleksandr and Mickey, and a nod in between Aleksandr and Ian - they left. No words were exchanged as they got into the car, nor as Ian drove them to Mickey’s. Silence hung over them like a solemn cloud while they made their way into the house, and traded suspenders for pajama pants. 

Ian got into bed, and Mickey crawled into his arms, letting himself sob into the crook of his neck. 

Mickey didn’t take long to cry himself out. One minute his breath came out in ragged gasps and snotty snorts, the next he was snoring deeply against the shell of Ian’s ear, rattling his brain in his skull. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to shoo him away, even as he overheated and sweat through his t-shirt. Even as his eyes refused to shut long after three in the morning. And especially not when Mickey whimpered in his sleep and scooted closer. No, he’d forgo every night of sleep if it meant that Mickey could get a few hours. Maybe that’s what Aleks meant- that feeling of no words. 

✦✦✦

A week later found Ian in front of Mickey’s bathroom mirror, securing his cufflinks in place. He straightened his back, and sighed at his reflection. 

“You’re gonna cut yourself,” he warned, voice tired. He took a step over to Mickey, who was leaning over the counter next to him, the bottom half of his face covered in shaving cream as his shaking hand ran a straight razor over his cheeks. Ian gently took the object away from him, and Mickey didn’t fight him; instead he let his hands fall to Ian’s hips, and Ian had the feeling that it wasn’t just about emotional stability. Every single part of his body seemed to be restless, shaking - even his eyes, darting around the bathroom; over Ian’s face, to the floor, to the doorway. “There,” Ian said as he wiped the last remainder of cream from his face. “You’re beautiful.”

Mickey exhaled through his nose, but there was barely a hint of amusement in the sound. He left to get dressed, and Ian left him to it, not wanting to push his help onto Mickey if it wasn’t wanted or needed. But eventually, Mickey had been struggling with his own cufflinks for almost two minutes, and Ian went over to him, gently picking his wrist up. 

“Nice cufflinks,” Ian commented softly, as he let go of one of the golden rectangles, reaching for the other one. 

“Yeah, some gollumpus gave ‘em to me,” he said, clearly joking, but seemingly too tired to put any hint of amusement into his voice. It was monotone - tired. 

Ian finished securing the cufflinks, and then he placed a hand at the back of Mickey’s neck, pulling him close, letting him tuck his face into his neck because he knew that breathing his scent in calmed him down. He would never admit it, of course, but Ian could tell. And he knew, because Mickey’s scent did the same for him. 

“Yevgeny and Svetlana meeting us there?” Ian questioned softly, resting his chin on top of Mickey’s head. 

“Nah, they gonna be here soon, gonna ride over together.” 

“Be glad to see him. Feel like it’s been forever,” Ian commented, glad that Mickey would have a decent support system around him- none of which more than him. He’d be there however he needed- and for once, if Mickey asked him to go, he’d do so. It was the least he could offer. Time. Whether it be spent together or on opposite sides of the town- if only for one night. 

The sound of the door opening downstairs drew them apart, but Ian gave his cheek one last soft pat before screams for ‘dad,’ filled the air. 

“Hey, Buddy,” Mickey greeted Yevgeny, doing his best to sound upbeat. He did a decent job, Ian thought, despite the circumstances. Though, Mickey had a lifetime worth of pretending that everything was okay- even when it was the exact opposite. 

“Hi, dad! I’m sorry uncle Aleks died. Will we see him again soon?”  Mickey opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His face fell, defeated, worried, sad, scared. Everything Ian didn’t want it to be. Everything it wasn’t fair that Mickey was feeling. 

“Hey, Yevy!” He intervened, giving Mickey’s shoulder a squeeze and a push in the other direction, away from company- away from everything. 

Yevgeny didn’t mind, happy to see Ian and tell him all about his long time spent at his moms. It’d only been a few weeks, but to Yevgeny, apparently, it felt like a ‘million years.’ He didn’t stop talking until it was time to leave. 

They took Svetlana’s car - she drove, Mickey was in the passenger seat. It was never stated out loud, but Ian could tell that he was needed in the backseat to entertain Yevgeny so that Mickey could be left alone for the few minutes it would take to get them to the church. Ian didn’t blame him - the boy was adorable, but he could be a lot, and it was especially heartbreaking to see him so unaware of the true finality that came with death. Or perhaps Ian envied him. 

They arrived, and Ian had to tuck his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks to make sure that he wouldn’t reach out for Mickey; wouldn’t hold his hand, pull him into his chest, or otherwise make himself known as anything but a friend - and the best thing was for him to seem as if he was even less than that, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about that part. Not today. 

“Have you talked to Mandy?” Iggy asked Mickey as they made their way away from the parking lot. Mickey shook his head. “She should know.” 

“Tried calling, but…” Mickey trailed off, and chose not to continue. Ian had questioned on the tip of his tongue, but he chose to swallow them. 

“Maybe I should sit further back,” Ian said thoughtfully, when he realized that they were all moving towards the front of the church. It made sense - Mickey, Iggy, and Yevgeny should all be in the front. Even Svetlana. Ian was no one; it felt like he would be overstepping. But it only took a moment of looking into Mickey’s eyes; Mickey’s glassy, tired, bloodshot, blue eyes - for Ian to realize that he was needed in the front. 

Right hand man, he reminded himself. He was Mickey’s gofer, Mickey’s planner, Mickey’s fucking secretary as far as anyone else was concerned. But he didn’t care. He only cared that Mickey knew he was there, and that he’d always be there, no matter what. 

He sat next to him as a priest, who seemed to be more than familiar with the family, droned on and on about god and heaven opening its doors to welcome Aleksandr Milkovich home (at least that’s what Ian picked up on- most of it was foreign gibberish, anyway), but Ian didn’t pay much attention. He had other things to focus on. Like the way Mickey’s hands shook in his lap, or the way he cleared his throat compulsively. And the way he didn’t cry. Not a single tear. 

Halfway through the service, Ian was needed again, in the form of making his lap a seat for Yevgeny, who’d begun to squirm and whine that he was bored. Svetlana, with mascara streaking down her cheeks had passed him over, wordlessly trusting Ian to handle it. So, Ian quietly whispered to him a story; one about a prince who had lots of dragons to slay, but a he was strong, and he was able to do it so that he could go home to his son and his princess wife. Yevgeny seemed to like it, and soon enough, the service was over. 

“Can you watch him a little longer?” Mickey murmured. “Pallbearer.” He was gone before Ian could answer.

“What’s pallbearer?” Yevgeny asked. 

“It’s uh…” Ian started quietly as he watched Mickey and Iggy head for the altar, along with four other men. “It’s what you’re called when you carry the casket out of the church.”  Thankfully, the organist began playing a version of ‘Amazing Grace’ and it was too loud for Yevgeny to bother asking more questions.  Slowly but surely, the church emptied; the guests following the casket. 

Aleksandr was to be buried on the outskirts; beneath a tree adorned with pale, pink flowers and a trunk as strong as the man. 

Ian fought down the lump in his throat as he hitched Yevgeny further up his hip. The boy seemed to notice the sadness that hung in the air, and he leaned his cheek against Ian’s shoulder; Ian didn’t have a choice but to lean his own against the soft strands of ash blonde hair.  Ian watched as Mickey took a handful of dirt and dropped it into the grave. Iggy did so as well, as did the rest of the pallbearers, Svetlana, Terry; soon it was Ian’s turn. He put Yevgeny down so that he could do so as well. 

The priest had already droned on about heaven and God, but he said something about ‘dust to dust’. Ian wasn’t quite listening because soon, Mickey was by his side once again, picking his son up onto his hip. He rested his lips against his temple, and Ian met his eyes over the strands of hair dancing in the wind. Ian could see how much he was struggling in order to keep his tears at bay, and he hated the fact that he couldn’t lean over and comfort him. 

They turned their attention back, as the casket was lowered into the ground. 

There was a little reception, thrown at Terry’s house afterward, and Terry made it clear that he expected all the men to be there. A toast to his brother, he’d promised; a gathering of just the ‘family,’ so that they could talk about Aleks. The ‘real’ Aleks, he’d promised. 

“You ain’t going to that,” Mickey grunted, just loud enough for Ian to hear, his eyes never leaving his father as Terry went on and on about the importance of remembering their roots, and how to find their way back to them. 

“What? He said it’s mandatory...” Ian shook his head, and hoisted a sleeping Yevgeny higher on his hip. 

“No. You’re not going. You got shit to do,” Mickey insisted, bringing his thumbnail up to chew on. 

“I’m so lost right now.” 

“You need to watch Yev. You can’t go. I’m gonna need to come get the kid from you real early, ‘cause you’re gonna have a family emergency,” Mickey spoke aloud, though it seemed like he was talking more to himself than to Ian. 

“Mickey-,” Ian sighed, allowing himself just one small touch- a simple squeeze on the shoulder. But Mickey was quick to shake him off. 

“No, Fish, listen to me,” he sneered, though Ian had known him long enough to understand that his anger wasn’t directed at him. “He’s gonna fucking trash talk him. That’s the whole point of this. Fucker ain’t even cold yet and Terry’s gonna drag his name through the mud. I can- I can get you out of it. Put you on babysitting duty. And then- fuck- then I can get myself out of it, alright? Okay? Can you just do this for me, please?” 

“Yeah, Mick,” Ian stuttered, taken aback by Mickey’s sudden, albeit quiet, outburst. “I can do that for you. It’s okay. It’s fine. Don’t worry, I’ll- I’ll take Yevy home. Then I’ll ring Terry’s place. Tell them you need to come get your kid,” he repeated back to him, if only to assure Mickey that he understood the plan. 

Mickey deflated a little when he realized that Ian was completely and totally onboard. That Ian was on his side, always. He scraped at his temple and bit at his lip, twitchy with nerves. 

“I just can’t be there,” he rasped. “Doesn’t deserve what that geriatric-,” he cut himself off when he noticed Yevgeny blinking sleepily at him. “I just wanna go home.”

“We’ll be there when you get back,” Ian told him softly, hoping that maybe his voice alone could soothe the ache in Mickey’s soul- even just a smidge. 

“я тебе люблю,” were Mickey’s next words, spoken solemnly, calmly and steady, just above a whisper. He didn’t wait for Ian to ask him what it meant, before turning and marching off toward the others. What he didn’t know was that Ian already knew. 

✦✦✦

That night Ian called Terry’s house, frantically telling the person that picked up that he needed to speak to Mickey immediately, and Mickey assured him he’d come right there- get his kid; even though Ian hadn’t said more than, ' _Hey. It’s your get out of jail free card_.' 

Mickey ordering Ian to stay away from a mandatory gathering, and then leaving himself, were the first and second times he’d ever disobeyed a direct order. But it wouldn’t be the last. 

By the time that he heard the front door open and close, signalling Mickey’s arrival, Ian was sitting out on one of Mickey’s patio sofas, the thin cushions barely protecting his back from the black metal frame. 

“Fish?” 

“Outside,” he called back, not tearing his eyes away from the unlit fire pit until he heard steps behind him. He then turned his head to the side, taking in the view of a clearly exhausted Mickey, leaned against the doorframe. “Come here,” Ian asked, bringing one of his arms up. Mickey went over, sighing when he fell into place next to Ian, his head against his shoulder. 

It was a perfect night on the surface; the kitchen bathed the patio in warm lighting; the wind was nowhere to be seen. A part of Ian wanted to wish that they could have had a night like this under other circumstances, but then he found himself appreciating that they had it at all. He didn’t want to wish for what wasn’t; not anymore. 

“Kid asleep?” Mickey mumbled. Ian hummed, turning his head to place the bottom half of his face against the soft, black strands of hair, breathing him in as he slowly tightened his hold around his shoulders. 

“Fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.” 

Mickey didn’t say anything to that; Ian merely felt him nod his head once as a way of tucking himself closer to Ian. Ian pulled him closer, using his free hand to reach for Mickey’s tie, loosening it, and undoing the first couple buttons of his shirt; a nonverbal reminder for him to breathe. His fingers then searched for Mickey’s, until he could toy with them, brush his thumb against the pale skin, braid them together. 

This was where he wanted to be, he realized. With Mickey. For as long as he was allowed to be. 

“я так тебе люблю,” he whispered.  Mickey lifted his head so fast he just barely missed knocking Ian’s nose out of commission. He furrowed his eyebrows, lips parted; Ian couldn’t help but think he would have made a similar expression, had Ian told him that Yevgeny had started speaking fluent Japanese. 

“The fuck you just say to me?” 

“я так тебе люблю,” Ian repeated. “That means ‘ _ I love you too _ ’, doesn’t it?” 

“Well, yeah - but I didn’t, I mean… fuck…” Mickey sighed, knocking his forehead against Ian’s shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d understand.” Ian chuckled slightly, placing a hand to the back of his head, his chin on top. 

“Too fucking bad, we can’t take it back now.”  Mickey lifted his head again; Ian wasn’t sure what to make of the look in his eye. Fear? Insecurity? Happiness? All of them? 

“You mean it?” 

“Of course,” Ian promised without a moment’s hesitation. “Of course I love you,” he shook his head as if Mickey was out of his mind for even suggesting that there may be a different possible answer to that question. 

Ian didn't have much time to react before Mickey’s lips claimed his; he could feel the pull of his tie being tugged at as Mickey wrapped it around his fist; could feel the arm around his neck, pulling him closer; could feel the sheer need that the man felt for him. Ian couldn’t imagine a world in which he didn’t feel the same crackling fire within his body - every single time that they so much as locked eyes. 

“I love you,” Ian mumbled into his mouth, as he grabbed Mickey’s clothed thighs, helping him into his lap. He felt as if Mickey needed to hear them - not just from him, but in general. As if he hadn’t heard them nearly as many times as he deserved to. “I love you,” he promised again. He loved being able to say them out loud, loved the taste of them on his tongue. Loved the way that Mickey desperately deepened the kiss with each and every time that he let them slip. 

“Come upstairs with me,” Mickey spoke against Ian’s lips, fingers scratching lightly against his scalp. 

“What about Ye-,” 

“Don’t even fucking say it. Just c’mon.” 

Ian let out a little breath of a laugh, but if Mickey wasn’t going to sit and over analyze, just the way he’d been doing since the moment Ian met him, then he wasn’t going to either. Mickey took his hand, weaving him through the living room and toward the stairs, quick and determined, careful not to slam the door once they’d reached his bedroom. 

Mickey took his shirt off, fingers nimble against the buttons, so Ian did the same, both of them keeping eye contact so intensely fiery that Ian thought he might melt. He worked the buckle of his belt, the soft clatter of it the only sound in the room, save for their heavy breathing. Ian chuckled when they stood in front of each other, nothing covering their bodies but a fine sheen of sweat. And when Mickey heard him laugh, it drew forth the first smile of the day. 

“C’mere,” he whispered, and Ian was quick to go. 

It was far different than the first time they’d been together (there had been several more times in the last few weeks, but none were like this). There wasn’t any power struggle. No teeth mingled in with the kisses. No fingernails slicing through skin. There was only gentle affection in the form of deep kisses and soft, trailing fingers through hair and across skin.

Ian sat back on his heels, Mickey’s legs wrapped around his waist as he rocked into him. The dim light of the single lamp on the nightstand drowned Mickey in a warm glow, and Ian thought he looked very near golden. He went slow - not torturously slow, but… slow. Slow enough that he could appreciate the way Mickey’s brows furrowed each time he bottomed out; slow enough that he didn’t need to hold onto his thighs with both hands; slow enough that he could instead use one of his palms to rest against Mickey’s upper chest, moving along with with his thrusts. Down to scratch across his nipple, and then up again, caressing the side of his neck. 

“Hey, no, no, no come back,” Ian whispered when Mickey’s eyes fluttered closed. “Look at me. Please look at me.” He didn’t know what it was about looking into Mickey’s eyes while they were in bed, but he couldn’t get enough of it. He needed to see the way his pupils were blown with ecstasy; he needed to see the way the blue color seemed to darken the closer he got. He needed to see what he was doing to him. How good he was making him feel. 

Mickey opened his eyes, his bottom lip turning white with how hard he was biting down in order to stay quiet. 

“Look at you, fuck -” Ian whispered, his hand halting its movements, staying at his neck, thumb gently brushing across his cheekbone. Mickey whimpered in a way that he would surely deny tomorrow morning. Then he tightened his legs around Ian’s waist, squeezing a time or two, clearly instructing him to pick it up. Ian chuckled quietly, laying down on top of him, deliberately slowing his thrusts down. “Bossy.” The sighed word was half amusement, and half pleasure at the new angle they had found. 

“You love it,” Mickey whispered right before exchanging his bottom lip for Ian’s shoulder, digging his teeth in. 

“Damn right I fucking do,” Ian assured him. “You ready?” Mickey hummed in confusion, letting go of his flesh to look up at him, eyebrows furrowed as he took in the mischievous look that had fallen across Ian’s features. 

Ian couldn’t give it to Mickey the way he usually liked it; he couldn’t pound into him until the bedframe banged against the wall, sending the house shaking; he couldn’t make Mickey into an actual, literal pillow biter. But he could do him one better. He clamped his hand over Mickey’s mouth, and angled himself exactly where he knew Mickey needed him; then he wrapped his other arm around his shoulders, pushing him down onto him, as he used most of the strength in his lower body to push himself as deep into Mickey as he could possibly come. Then he stayed there, continuing to push them together, as he rolled his hips; didn’t pull out, just pushed against that spot inside of Mickey. Again, and again, and again. 

Ian bit down on his own lip, as he listened to Mickey’s muffled mewls and cries. He could tell that he was trying to keep his eyes open for him, but it didn’t take long until they were rolling to the back of his head. 

“It’s okay,” Ian whispered, keeping his hand over his mouth as he pressed a few chaste kisses over his neck, and his shoulder. “Close your eyes, Mick - just take it. Just feel it,” he whispered, feeling his own stomach tense as Mickey’s legs began to shake around his waist. Ian took his hand from Mickey’s mouth, moving it down to Mickey’s cock, instead using his own mouth to muffle his cries. It only took one or two strokes before Mickey was there, Ian swallowing down his curses and his grunts as he spilled in between them. 

Mickey hadn’t quite come back before Ian’s body convulsed with the force of his own orgasm; he could feel Mickey’s muscles help him along as he emptied himself deep inside of him.  Afterwards, Ian barely had the energy to pull out before he collapsed on top of Mickey, nose buried in the crook of his neck. 

Soon, he heard a quiet sniffle, and he picked his head up, forehead creased when he saw a lone tear make its way down Mickey’s temple. 

“Hey,” Ian whispered, reaching to wipe it away. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey pushed him off, moving until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands holding onto the mattress as he looked out the window. “It ain’t you - ‘m not a fucking girl who’s gonna cry just cause you threw me a good one.” 

“Didn’t think it was me,” Ian assured him softly. A beat of silence passed. “If you want me to go, I will. If you need space to just… feel, you know.” He didn’t want to go - not a single fibre of his being wanted to leave - but he would. If Mickey needed him to, he would. That was what he had promised himself, and that was what he would stick to. 

“No,” Mickey assured him, voice thick. That was all the reassurance Ian needed to grab him by the waist and pull him back into the bed, not stopping until his chest was against his, his own arms locked around him, keeping him there. “Can you say it again?” The request was so quiet that Ian barely caught it. 

Ian let out a little gust of air, enough to blow around a wild strand of Mickey's hair, enough to make Mickey burrow in a little closer. Ian kissed the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his hair gel and sweat, his pain and grief. He hugged him tighter, so much so that he was sure it must have been uncomfortable for Mickey- but he didn't move. 

"I love you, Mikhailo. I really, really do." 

Mickey's head popped up, eyes glassy, but not far away. He leaned in to kiss Ian again, soft and sweet. 

"Love you, too."

✦✦✦

Ian pulled into the familiar driveway of Aleksandr’s home late the next morning, leaning forward in the driver's seat so that he could see the house as a whole. It looked exactly as he’d remembered it- he was there only a week before- but there was something different about it now. Now that its owner was gone, replaced by someone new. 

“This is our house now, dad?” Yevgeny asked from the backseat. He had a vague understanding that Mickey was willed the home, along with most of Aleks’ possessions (a point of contention amongst his father that Mickey refused to speak about). 

“It is,” Mickey told him tiredly, biting at his lip by way of delaying the inevitable, Ian assumed. 

“Are we going to live here now?” 

“No,” Mickey rasped. “No one’s gonna live here, buddy.” 

“I don’t think any of my friends have two houses. That’s a lot of houses. Why aren’t we gonna live here? I like uncle Aleks’ house. It’s big. I could have a hundred rooms!” 

Mickey took in a breath, and Ian reached a subtle hand over to squeeze his thigh, Mickey plastering his own hand on top of it and lacing their fingers together. 

“Yevy,” Ian broke in. “Remember how we talked about how sometimes when someone passes away, that it’s really hard to do things that you think you should? This is one of those things. It’s hard for dad to be here right now. So we need to be extra kind, right?” 

“Right,” Yevgeny agreed, mustering all of the solemnity that a four year old could. “I love you, dad. I’ll be kind.” 

Mickey turned in his seat and gave Yevgeny a tight lipped and watery smile- trying not to scare his little boy when he was so close to breaking down. “Love you, too, kid. Thanks for taking care of your old man.” 

“You ready to do this, Milkovich?” Ian asked, drawing Mickey’s attention back to the front. Mickey didn’t say anything back, but he gave Ian’s hand another squeeze and stepped out of the car. 

The three of them stood quietly at the front door- Mickey’s fingers shaking around the key where it sat perched in the lock. The way his teeth worked his lip made Ian think that at any time it could start bleeding. Being mindful of Yevgeny’s ever watchful eyes, Ian put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, friendly, if anything and cleared his throat. 

“You could just tell me what you want. I can go in and get it for you. You don’t have to do this, Mick.” 

“I’m afraid-,” Mickey’s eyes glanced down at his son and back up. “Afraid if I don’t get what I want now- someone- could go in and take it before I get the chance. I can’t let that happen.” Ian didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that he was talking about Terry, so he gave him a sad smile and a nod. 

“Can we go in now, dad? I gotta go to the bathroom real bad.”

Ian laughed. He couldn’t help it. And when Mickey took in the sight of Ian shaking with it, he laughed, too. A full, belly rumble of a laugh, and the two of them amped up even more when Yevgeny made an indignant sound of protest. Ian was glad for it, because not long after, Mickey twisted the door handle and the foyer came into view.

Yevgeny immediately ran inside, and headed for the bathroom, disappearing around a corner. Ian took advantage of his absence, placing a soft hand around Mickey’s neck, resting his lips against his temple for a beat. 

“Where do we start?” Ian asked, letting go of Mickey, who shrugged, letting his eyes wander around the large entrance - the staircase, the doorways leading to different parts of the house. 

“Wherever, I guess,” Mickey sighed. “I don’t know. It’s so fucking big.” Ian promptly bit back the horribly ill timed joke that tickled his tongue, and they headed up the staircase. 

“The closet?” Ian asked, as they reached the hallway where he had gotten used to go in order to retrieve a new oxygen tank every few hours. Mickey shrugged; a motion that Ian read as him saying ‘ _ Good place as any, I guess _ ’. So he opened the closet door, reaching in to turn on the light before stepping back, letting Mickey go first. The closet was just large enough to fit a couple of leftover oxygen tanks, some racks of clothing, and a few boxes. Ian could follow Mickey inside if he wanted to, but he stayed in the doorway, giving him space. 

“Dad?” 

“We’re up here, Yev!” Ian was quick to call back, soon hearing the ‘ _ tap, tap, tap _ ’ of the young boy making his way up the staircase. 

“That’s nice, dad!” Yevgeny said as soon as he reached them, eyes falling upon the suit jacket that Mickey was holding. It was a pale, grey fabric, seemingly not quite as nice as the clothes he had worn towards the end of his life - even slightly worn. But Yevgeny wasn’t wrong - it was absolutely a nice piece of clothing. 

“You think so?” Mickey asked. “How about you take it? You’ll grow into it.” He handed it over to his son. 

“I could wear it when I dig for dinosaur bones! Like the arch-a-lologists!” 

“Archaeologists,” Mickey corrected absently, the sound of shuffling filling the air. 

“That’s what I said,” Yevgeny informed him, sliding the jacket over his arms, the hem of it dragging well past his knees. “Looks good, right, Ian?” He spun in place with his arms to the sides, sleeves willing past his tiny little fists. 

Ian was struck by just how much Yevgeny looked like his dad in that moment- how much he acted like him, too. Sure, he was his own person, with his own personality. But Mickey’s influence was certainly there, loud and clear. 

“Looks great, pal,” Ian smiled and ruffled his hair, just as he heard a hushed curse come from the closet.  “Mick?” 

“Yeah,” was the shaky reply, and Ian couldn’t help but shuffle into the tiny space. “Found, uh- this old box of pictures. I-,” he shook his head, and Ian could see the bulge in his throat shift as he swallowed. 

“Aleks mentioned these to me. They were important to him. But we don’t have to look at them right now,” Ian soothed, scraping his nails lightly against the collar of Mickey’s shirt. 

“No- I want to.”

Ian stepped out and to the side, ready to follow Mickey wherever he needed him, and that place turned out to be Aleks’ bed- the thick red comforter still rumpled from the last time he’d slept there- The last time he ever would sleep there.  Mickey poked and prodded around, looking at some pictures, tossing others around. Some he smiled at, some he frowned at. Finally, he picked one up and looked at it for longer than the others. 

“Come look at this, Yev.”  Yevgeny padded over in his too-big jacket, raising his arms for Ian to settle him on his lap, and leaned over to get a better view.  “That’s your old man when he was a baby. Whatcha think of that?” Mickey asked, handing the picture over. 

“Wow, this picture must be really old,” Yevgeny mentioned, and Ian covered his chuckle with a cough when Mickey flared at him. “Who’s that girl with you, dad?” 

“That’s, uh, that’s my mom.” 

“She’s dead, right? Like uncle Aleks?” 

Ian bit at his lip to stop from chastising Yevgeny. It wasn’t his place, for one. And for two, it wasn’t Yevgeny's fault. He didn’t know about the delicate way that death should be handled. Nor the way that words can hurt more than you could ever know. 

“Yes,” Mickey breathed. 

“But I don’t ever get to see her. Does that mean that I won’t ever get to see Aleks, either?” 

Mickey took a deep breath and scrubbed his hand down his face, and Ian could tell that he was fighting so, so hard to keep his composure. He wished that he could hug him. Tell him everything would be okay, and even if it wasn’t, he’d still be there. He settled for his go-to in the presence of company, putting a solid hand on his shoulder, and hoping that it would convey everything he couldn’t say. 

“Yeah, kid. That’s what it means.” 

“Oh,” Yevgeny frowned, ever poignant, as he dropped the picture back into the box. Even from his position, Ian could see Yevgeny looking at Mickey through his light colored lashes, the way they bounced around as he took in Mickey’s crumpling face. “Maybe if we look at more pictures, it’ll be like he’s still here,” he suggested, sounding wise far beyond his years.

“I think that’s a really good idea, Yevy,” Ian told him when it was clear that Mickey couldn’t find the words. He managed a shaky breath, and a nod, as he placed the picture to the side for now, lifting a few more off the top before he picked another one up, sighing heavily. 

“What’s that, dad?” Yevgeny asked when he thought Mickey had been quietly looking at it for too long. Ian tightened his hold around the boy’s waist, before running a soothing palm up and down his back, silently telling him to let his dad take his time. 

“It’s ah…” Mickey cleared his throat. “It’s of me and your aunt. First day of school - I don’t know what year.” Ian eased himself and Yevgeny a little bit closer to Mickey, so that they could look over his shoulder. 

“Did I ever meet aunt Mandy?” Yevgeny asked, and Ian was thankful. He had always been curious about Mickey’s absent family members, but he had never been brave enough to ask, terrified that he would be digging something up that was best left alone. 

“Yeah - when you were, when you were a baby. She came and visited for a couple weeks. Should have a picture of her holding you somewhere - maybe not in here, these seem to be a lot older,” Mickey mumbled, his eyes dancing across the pictures on top before settling back onto the one he was holding. “This uh… I don't know what year this was,” Mickey said again, waving the picture slightly up and down. “But uh… I remember your grandpa was in uh…” 

“On vacation?” Ian helped him out, understanding that Mickey didn’t want Yevgeny to be ripped free of his content incomprehension just yet; he could learn about prison tomorrow. Or next year. 

“Yeah, yeah - vacation,” Mickey mumbled. “We stayed with Aleks for… fuck, must have been almost six months.” Ian frowned, and looked down at the picture. They weren’t old at all. A couple years older than Yevgeny, at most - six months was a lot at that age. 

“That’s a long time when you’re a kid,” Ian voiced, and Mickey cleared his throat. 

“I uh… think I accidentally called him pops a coupla’ times.” Mickey chuckled dryly. Ian swallowed, fingers itching to pull him close. 

“Who’s this?” Yevgeny reached for another photograph. Mickey looked over, gently taking the photo, but keeping it where they could all see it. 

“That musta’ been Aleks and Martha. Shit - same age I am now, close at least.” 

Ian looked at the black and white photograph; now that Mickey said it, he could easily recognize Aleksandr. Of course his skin housed less wrinkles, and he filled out the suit more than he had towards the end - he had more hair on his head. But he had the same unreadable expression on his face, the same look in his eye. The photograph must have been taken at his wedding, because the woman by his side was wearing a veil. She was a lot shorter than him, with long black hair and dark eyes. 

“Grandpa always says uncle Aleks’ wife was a no-good beaner,” Yevgeny said; Ian knew that he didn’t mean anything by it, that he didn’t know, but he found himself shushing him anyway. 

“Don’t say that.” It wasn’t his place to lecture Mickey’s son, and he knew that, but considering how many slurs were thrown his and Mickey’s way, he couldn’t help it. 

“Why? Is it a bad word? I like beans,” Yevgeny shrugged. “Why does he say ‘no good’?” Mickey sighed, and Ian realized that he was asking him to take this one. 

“Sometimes people say things that- that hurt people’s feelings,” Ian said, trying to come up with the best way to tell the truth, not out his grandpa as a raging lunatic, and keep it in the realm of four year old vernacular. “It’s just, it’s not a nice thing to say. You wouldn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings, would you?” 

Yevgeny turned to him with wide eyes, just as blue as his dad’s, and just as earnest. He shook his head fast, fast enough that it probably would have made Ian dizzy if he were the one to do it, and adamantly told him, “No. Never.” 

“I didn’t think so,” Ian said and patted down his wild hair. “We just have to be careful with what we say, right?” 

“What other bad words are there?” 

“Maybe we just stick to calling people by their names to avoid the whole issue, huh?” Ian chuckled. 

“Okay, Ian. I’ll just call her by her name.” 

Ian gave him a reassuring nod, and Yevgeny shuffled his hand through the box of pictures again. He looked at a few, very little catching his interest, before he held one up close to Mickey’s face. 

“That’s grandpa!” He said proudly, happy that he was able to recognize someone. “Where is he? That’s not his house. That house is a dump. Oh! That was mean, wasn’t it?” He asked, shocked that he’d said it at all. “It’s, um, just a different house.” 

Mickey snorted as he took the picture from Yevgeny’s tiny little hands, turning it over and scanning his eyes across the faded image. 

“That’s uh, that is- or was, grandpa’s house. When I was a kid,” Mickey rasped, seemingly seeing something past the picture. 

“You lived there?” Yevgeny squeaked, wiggling in Ian’s lap to get a better look. 

“Yep. Shared a room uncle Iggy. And it’s okay, that house  _ was _ a dump,” he laughed dryly. 

“Why’d you live there? Grandpa’s house is so nice! I would rather live in his house now than that one.” 

Ian thought he wouldn’t want to live in either of Terry’s houses, or near Terry at all, for that matter. But he was intrigued. Mickey’d told him in the past that he had a rough childhood- growing up without toys or food or even fucking water sometimes. He’d never wanted to pry, but it seemed as if Aleksandr had always lived well, and Ian was surprised that Terry hadn’t. 

“Grandpa- he, um, he didn’t always have the job he has now. He didn’t used to have money or anything... uncle Aleks helped him get his job.” Ian could swear that the more he found out about Aleksandr’s relationship with his brother, the more he hated Terry. Not that Aleksandr had been an angel, but taking everything into consideration - he had absolutely been a decent human being as far as Ian could tell. He had even helped Terry to the top, and now Terry was shit-talking him? 

Ian sighed heavily, and Mickey gave him a look - a look that said ‘ _ I know. Me too. _ ’ 

“Yeah, Aleks, he uh… he was always more of a go-getter, you know he liked to work for things in his life,” Mickey explained, seemingly more to Ian than to Yevgeny, but keeping his wording simple enough that Yevgeny could understand without finding out more than he should. “Grandpa…” It seemed that Mickey had to stop himself to make sure he wouldn’t say something bad about the man Yevgeny still somewhat admired. “He’s always been a little more impatient.” Ian knew that that was code for ‘ _ Aleksandr was an honest person who only did bad things when he had to, and Terry is and always has been a piece of shit who steps on people wherever he goes without giving it a second thought _ .’

They looked through a few more photographs after that - one of Aleksandr holding a newborn Mickey; Ian thought that it looked very much like a father and son, but he didn’t comment on it. Yevgeny asked about a photo of Mickey in his early teen years, and why his shirt had a hole in it. That part didn’t bother Ian as much as the fact that Mickey looked quite underweight - so did his sister, and his brothers around the same time. He fought the urge to punch a wall, or hug Mickey, and instead he kept a firm hold on Yevgeny, soothing himself with the knowledge that Mickey was okay now - and Yevgeny would never have to go through anything like that. 

“Yeah, uh…” Mickey said after a while, starting to place the pictures back into the box. “Let’s move on, okay?” He was quite talented at hiding the thickness in his voice, but Ian could hear it. He could always tell. So he put Yevgeny onto the floor. 

“How about you go find a mirror and take another look at that jacket? It looks really good on you.” 

“Really?” Yevgeny beamed, and soon he was running out into the hallway, off to do just that. As soon as his steps faded in the distance, Ian reached over to Mickey and pulled him close. 

He held him there for a long while, long enough that he felt Mickey’s breathing go back to normal, and the pulse against his palm settle back to something that seemed calm enough. 

“You okay?” He murmured into the crown of his head. It was a stupid thing to ask because, clearly, he wasn’t. Clearly, he was breaking down. Clearly, he needed to be anywhere other than where he was. 

“I’ll get there,” he shrugged, pulling away and wiping at his face.

“Yeah, well. If you’re not- you know I’m here, right?” Ian offered the only thing he could; himself. 

“Yeah, Fish. I know. I’m-,” 

“Dad, who’s this?” Yevgeny came back in, still in his oversized jacket, but this time he carried with him a small golden picture frame in his hands. It was tiny, maybe wallet sized, and Ian looked at it as if he were trying to remember if he’d seen it before. 

“Let’s see,” Mickey said as he reached a hand out for it. “Shit,” he cursed lowly, but Yevgeny heard it, as did Ian. Mickey bit his lip and looked at the picture for a long while, quiet and pensive, even when Yevgeny pestered him about who it was and why it upset Mickey enough to say a ‘bad word.’ Ian would have been lying if he said that he weren’t intrigued as well, at least until Mickey handed it over to him, eyes wide and worried. 

And Ian could see why. In his hands was a small picture of a young man, only his profile in view. Held in his arms was another man, kissing him deeply through a smile that seemed so genuine that it almost hurt. The picture was blurry, as old ones tended to be, especially when the subject moved too much for the classic cameras to pick up. But there wasn’t any mistaking that strong jaw- even if Ian had met the owner when he was far older. It was Aleks. And his lover. 

“Why are those guys kissing?” Yevgeny asked innocently, no judgement in his voice, just pure, childlike curiosity. 

“Where’d you find that? That wasn’t for you to see,” Mickey told him, perhaps a little harsher than was strictly necessary, but Ian could see the panic in his eyes. 

“Up in the attic...” Yevgeny said through a quivering voice. His lip trembled as if he thought he were in trouble, that he’d done something wrong. Ian was just about to reach out and pick him up, but Mickey beat him to it. 

“What were you doing up there?” Mickey questioned, tone reeling back in as he took several steadying breaths. 

“Exploring. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again!” Yevgeny sounded so upset that Ian had to shoot Mickey a look. Mickey shot him one back, and Ian shot another one, until Yevgeny had to interrupt their silent conversation. “Hello?” He asked, causing them both to turn back to him. “I thought people only kissed like that when they were married,” he asked, the pure innocence in his voice never once wavering. 

As much as Ian loved Yevgeny, and as close as he had grown to both him and Mickey, he did recognize that this was a conversation that Yevgeny should have with his father, so he stayed silent as Mickey sighed, seemingly wracking his brain for the right words to say. 

“Come here,” Mickey asked, nodding his son over to his side, until he could pick him up and hold him in his lap. “You know uh… you’re right,” he started. “People don’t really have to be married to want to kiss each other like this, but it does mean that you have… those feelings for each other.”

“What feelings?” Yevgeny pushed. 

“Um… love,” Mickey said. 

“But I love you,” Yevgeny said, clearly confused. 

“Well yeah, but there are many different kinds of love,” Mickey continued to explain, surprisingly patient. “You know, you can love your family, and you can love your friends - you even love that cat your mom has, right?” Yevgeny nodded. “They’re all different kinds of love - I’m talkin’ about being _in_ love.” 

“Like a boyfriend and a girlfriend or a husband and a wife?” Yevgeny asked, to which Mickey nodded. 

“Yes…” Mickey trailed off, picking the photograph back up. “And sometimes… a boy wants a boyfriend, or a girl wants a girlfriend…” Ian met Mickey’s eyes above Yevgeny’s head, and he found himself mouthing the words ‘ _ You’re doing great _ ’. But Yevgeny seemed confused. 

“So this is the same as a boy kissing a girl?” He asked, looking at the photograph. 

“Yeah,” Ian joined in, figuring that Mickey might need some support here and there. Yevgeny looked to him. 

“How come all the married people are boy and girl?” At that, Ian and Mickey met each other’s eyes once again, both suffocating their sighs. 

This was the hard part. This was the part when they could either avoid Yevgeny’s question and keep him blind and numb to the injustices of the world - or they could take the opportunity to educate him - and thereby pop the bubble he was currently in. The bubble of lollipops, cotton candy and warm hugs - puppies and rainbows. 

Ian gave Mickey a look, and they both knew what he had to do. 

“Well… it’s not allowed - for a boy to marry a boy, or a girl to marry a girl.” 

“Why not?” Yevgeny asked. 

“Well… see, some people... some people think it’s not right. They think that it looks wrong for two boys to love each other, or two girls to love each other.” 

“That’s stupid,” Yevgeny said, frowning, as he looked down at the picture. “They look so happy.” Mickey breathed out a puff of air through his nose. 

“Yeah, kid,” he mumbled tiredly. “They do.” 

Ian didn’t miss the way Mickey’s eyes stayed on his as he said it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> "Nice to see you, my boy."   
> "You look like shit." 
> 
> "I love you." 
> 
> "I love you too."
> 
> _____
> 
> Thank you to everyone sticking with this story, reading, and commenting, we really appreciate every single one of you so much!


	20. twenty

Ian woke up sometime the next morning with glittering sunshine washing his face in a golden warmth, a warm, heavy comforter over his left shoulder, and a warm, heavy body pressed against his front, spooned in like they were made to fit together. Two pieces of the same puzzle, lost in two different boxes for far too long- but it didn’t matter, because somehow, two pieces that were made to fit, always seem to find their way together (even if it takes more than a little bit of patience to get there).

He shuffled over, careful not to wake Mickey up, and leaned to pick his pocket watch up from where he’d left it on the nightstand. He squinted at it, vision still blurry and thick with sleep. Eight o’clock was early, but not so early that they had anywhere to be just yet. 

Ian’s days would be different without Aleks around. Without the need for him to care for him anymore, Ian was relegated back to the diner, sans line cook duty. He was meant to loan the cash and keep the books- at least until Terry pulled his head out from whatever bottle he was drowning himself in and decided otherwise. He had two hours before he needed to be there- sticking around until sometime around four. A nice, easy schedule, Mickey had told him, and Ian was thankful for the little bit of a break Mickey was allowing him. Perks of fucking the boss, he mused to himself. 

Mickey was on collection duty that day (though Ian wished for Mickey’s sake that he would at least get a few days of rest after just burying his uncle- but that was life under Terry’s leadership, apparently), having gone over his plan with Ian the night before when they laid in bed after a long day or sorting through Aleks’ belongings. Mickey had been particularly cat-like, laying across Ian’s chest and nuzzling in, sighing with every stroke of Ian’s fingers across the skin of his back. But he had some time before that, too, and Ian was content in knowing that he had time to get up and cook a decent meal- he hadn’t noticed Mickey eating much in the last week or so, and he wouldn’t stand for it. 

Navigating Mickey’s kitchen was as easy as breathing. He knew where every pot and pan, utensil and plate was, knew where every egg and bag of flour for pancakes were- even if it was a little weird cooking there without his miniature sidekick, having been picked up by his mother a mere few minutes after Ian had dragged himself out of bed. 

He plated the food, one giant stack on one plate, because he knew that he would be the one responsible for the dishes afterward, and carried it precariously up the steps. Mickey was still asleep when he walked in, and he smiled to himself as he sat the dish on the end table and snuggled back in behind Mickey, dropping gentle kisses on his shoulder. 

“Wake up, Mikhailo, time to make the bacon,” he murmured against his skin, and playfully bit down just hard enough to leave a pink streak behind. Mickey didn’t answer right away, so Ian nudged him again, whispering quiet words of affection and promises of filling his belly full of syrup if he would just. Wake. Up. 

Mickey’s eyes opened a few minutes later, and to the average person, it wouldn’t seem so bad. A few minutes to get your bearings, especially after such a hard day would be considered standard fare, but Mickey wasn’t just anybody. Mickey slept with one eye open always. Mickey twitched and tossed and turned every night. Mickey was always on high alert, ready to jump and run at a moments notice. 

“Hey, morning,” Ian said gently, using his pointer finger to tuck a rogue lock of hair back into Mickey’s messy coif. “You sleep okay?” 

Mickey didn’t respond to that with anything more than a quiet grunt. Almost two minutes after he had first started to blink awake, Ian was starting to become a bit concerned; at that point, he was usually on his feet, pulling his lochtes on, and talking about all the shit he had to do that day. 

“You feelin’ sick?” Ian asked softly, holding the back of his hand to his forehead; he was a little bit warmer than Ian would think comfortable, but not warm enough that Ian thought he had found the reason for his sluggish behaviour. Mickey shook his head, and pulled the covers up to his chin; it could have been cute, if it was something he did often, but as it were, it only brought Ian more worry. 

“You sure? I made pancakes,” he reminded him, even though he had already told him, and even though the entire room was filled with the sweet scent of them. 

“Don’t want ‘em,” Mickey mumbled, as he turned over, giving Ian his back once again. 

“Oh… okay,” Ian nodded to himself. “That’s fine, do you want something else? I made coffee, too.” He was torn in between pulling Mickey close, and giving him space, but ultimately, his selfishness won, and he eased himself closer, spooning him, the covers in between them, as Ian was on top of them. 

“No fucking coffee.” The words were barely audible enough that Ian could hear them; they were muffled by the covers, but also hoarse, gravely, and… wet. Ian swallowed, looking over his shoulder to see if he had any wet streaks down his cheeks, but he didn’t. “Just wanna sleep.” 

“You sure you’re not sick?” Ian couldn’t help but ask again. Him not having a fever didn’t mean that he couldn’t have a migraine, or a stomach ache, or something else that Ian couldn’t notice from the outside. 

“Not fuckin’ sick,” Mickey bit - it seemed as if he did his best to sound intimidating, but it only made Ian sad. If there was one thing Mickey was good at, it was telling people off. Why did he sound like a little boy? “Just… fuckin’ leave me alone,” he requested, without turning to look at Ian; without brushing his hand across the arm holding him. 

Ian didn’t want to. Of course he didn’t want to. But at the end of the day, he had promised himself, and Mickey that he would leave him alone when he needed it. Besides - he had to be at the diner in an hour anyway, so he really didn’t have much of a choice. 

“Okay. I’ll leave you alone,” Ian whispered, but didn’t leave the bed until he had pressed a kiss to Mickey’s cheek. “I love you.” 

✦✦✦

For Ian, working at the diner was by now a well-rehearsed routine. He didn’t have to think, he just did. It was even easier now that he wasn’t cooking. More or less, he just had to sit around until someone came in asking to speak about their allergies. Then, later in the day, he had to make sure that everything was in order as far as the books went. 

It was an easy job. 

Usually, that was a good thing - but today, he wished that he had something else to think about, something that was complicated enough to occupy his brain, and his thoughts. Because all he could do was think about Mickey, worry about Mickey - wonder if he was out of bed yet, if he had eaten any of the pancakes, if he had made it to wherever he was going today. 

Ian’s questions were answered an hour after the lunch rush, when Iggy came walking into the kitchen, doing his best to nonchalantly pull down the partition to keep the rest of the diner from overhearing him, as he asked Ian how Mickey was doing. 

“Um… I don’t know,” Ian lied through his teeth. “I mean, we’re friends, but you’re his brother, I figure you…” Iggy silenced him with a look that said ‘ _ I’m not a fucking idiot. Don’t treat me like one. _ ’ “I...” Ian sighed. He wanted to tell him that his brother was closing himself off; that he was acting strange and that Ian was worried. He wanted to tell him- but could he? 

“I know Mick’s gay, Ian. He’s never come out and told me, but... I know. Same way I know you are and that it ain’t a coincidence that every time I see him, you’re trailing around behind him. I don’t give a shit who you fuck or who he fucks. I give a shit about him being alright because I know how he gets when shit gets too rough for him. So cut the shit. How is Mickey?” Iggy looked at him with hardened eyes- but they weren’t angry. It was the look of a man who had questions that he needed answered- a man worried about his brother. 

Ian took a deep breath and sighed- he needed the help. Mickey would just have to be mad at him later. 

“He wouldn’t get out of bed this morning. Barely even spoke to me. He’s not eating, either...” 

“Shit,” Iggy cursed, bringing his thumbnail up to chew on- very much like his brother. “I was worried about that. Mick- he has a tendency to shut down. 

“I don’t... I don’t know what to do... Mick’s got collections today, so it’s not anything too hard. I’ll take care of it,” Ian waves an impassive hand. “But how long will he be like this?” 

“You’re gonna do his collections?” Iggy asked, a smirk fighting it’s way onto his face. 

“I- yeah? I’ve done it before. Not a big deal or anything? I- what?” He was annoyed, thinking that Iggy didn’t find him intimidating or strong or capable enough to run Mickey’s rackets while he was down- but he could, and he would. Mickey needed a break, and Ian would give him that. He deserved it. And fuck Iggy for thinking otherwise. 

“No, nothing. Just- that’s pretty swell of you, y’know. To take care of him when...” he waved a hand around vaguely. 

“Yeah, well. Better I do it than Terry find out, right?” 

“You got that fucking right,” he scoffed. “Jesus, Mick.” He ran his hands down his face, scratching at the light stubble growing through his skin- his movements so like Mickey’s that it made him homesick for the man. Made him miss him so much that it almost hurt him for real- even if it had only been one morning of being shut out, especially since Mickey was notorious for keeping him at an arm's length. Except, well, now he loved him, and Mickey loved him back. It was different. 

“So what do I do? How do I make him feel better?” Ian asked desperately, wanting nothing more than to have Mickey come through the swinging door and tell him to get the fuck back to work. 

“I don’t know,” Iggy said after a long, quiet moment. “I guess we just have to let him go through it.” 

“I mean, do I push or do I just leave him be?” Ian asked without a second thought; perhaps it wasn’t so strange, after so long of being unable to ask for advice about Mickey, or about their relationship in any way whatsoever.

Iggy, who had turned around, about to head out of the kitchen, turned around, and sighed. 

“I don’t know, Gallagher,” he admitted. “I don’t know.” 

Ian watched him leave the kitchen, the conversation having done nothing but feed the growing cloud of worry within his stomach. He finished up his shift, and then he dug through his notes to find the people that hadn’t paid what they owed. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did; it shouldn’t have felt good at all to point a revolver at a helpless man barely older than himself, and demand that he give him the money he owed Mickey. But it did - and he had felt that before - he had felt that rush of power, but those times, he had swallowed it down. That night, he embraced it. He let his voice go as low as it wanted to, and he pressed the weapon to the man’s temple, until he could see his hands begin to shake. 

It wasn’t loaded; but when the next person on the list started speaking back to Ian, he wished that it was. 

“ _ You _ work for Mickey? I’m sorry, I’m just surprised he’s got a leprechaun collecting his money.” The business man laughed, his oversized stomach moving with the sound of his amusement. 

“I would be really. Fucking. Careful,” Ian said, pressing the revolver against his cheek until his skin turned white. 

“Okay, okay - not in the mood, I get it,” the man assured him, but the jokes didn’t stop there. Ian was there for at least fifteen minutes, threatening him, before he could finally leave with the money. If his weapon had been loaded, he wasn’t so sure that he could have resisted leaving a crime scene behind. 

He couldn’t explain it - there was something inside of him, some foul, disgusting emotion that he hadn’t felt in years - not like this. Anger. Not brief anger that calmed down after a punch to someone’s face, or a screaming match - but the kind of anger that stuck with you. He was so fucking angry. Angry that Aleksandr was dead, and Terry was allowed to live. Angry that Mickey had to live with that, angry that Mickey, who was one of the best people that Ian had ever met, was so sad that he couldn’t get out of bed. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of it. 

✦✦✦

Ian used the spare key, the one he’d taken before, the one he’d never actually returned, and opened the door late into the night. It was well past midnight, having done his own job and Mickey’s thereafter- taking the money back to the diner and depositing it all on the safe, fixing the books. He should have been exhausted, only he was anything but. He felt the staticky prickle of nerves instead. A niggle of worry scratching and pulsing at his brain. 

He didn’t waste time taking his shoes off or hanging his suit jacket up. Instead, he bounded up the steps two at a time, only slowing one he was just outside of Mickey’s door. 

He opened it quietly, trying not to wake him (or scare him into shooting him), and tip-toed his way across the carpet to slide in behind Mickey. Mickey’s breathing wasn’t the slow measured pace that Ian would have expected from a sleeping person; instead it was shallow and shaky. Mickey was crying. And Ian’s heart was breaking. 

“Shh,” Ian whispered, wrapping his arm around him and pulling him close. “S’okay, Mick. S’okay.” 

Ian held him as he shook harder, curling in on himself with sobbing gasps, tears sliding from his cheeks washing down into Ian’s forearm. He squeezed him and whispered calming words in his ear, promising him that he was there and that he wasn’t going to leave, and that if Mickey needed to spend the whole rest of his life laying in that bed, then Ian would too. They could mold into the mattress for all he cared, he told Mickey. All the while Mickey cried quietly to himself, oblivious to anything else.

Ian didn’t know how long they laid there; his face tucked into Mickey’s neck, lips by his ear, whispering calming reassurance after calming reassurance - his own arm growing white around where Mickey was gripping him - as if he was afraid that he would float away. Eventually, Mickey’s sobs faded; Ian could still feel the tears rolling down onto his arm, and in the quiet room, he could hear the occasional one drip down onto the bed. 

Ian didn’t mean to fall asleep - but before he knew it, he opened his eyes, and the room was flooded with the grey light of the morning. He was laying on Mickey’s chest, as if he were the one being comforted, as Mickey absentmindedly played with their fingers. 

“D’you sleep?” Ian asked, lifting his head to look at Mickey, who seemed to be very fascinated by something on the ceiling above them. 

“No.” His voice was nearly as rough and as gravely as Ian’s - but Ian’s was merely rough as a result of leftover sleep. Mickey sounded as if he had been crying all night, and the flushed tone around his eyes didn’t exactly give Ian a lot of hope that that theory was wrong. 

Ian sighed, letting go of Mickey’s hand in order to let his fingers brush across his temple, thumb resting on his chin. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?” ian couldn’t help but let a little bit of annoyance slip into the tone of his whispered question. The thought of Mickey laying awake for hours on end, crying and crying, without Ian being there - even if he was there physically - the thought hurt him. He hated himself for falling asleep. 

“I didn’t want to,” Mickey surprised him by saying, finally moving his attention away from the ceiling in order to meet his eyes. 

“What?” 

“Having you snoring into my ear ain’t that bad.” 

“You love me,” Ian teased, if only to add a little bit of levity to his day- and honestly, he needed the reminder. It was selfish, he knew, to think of himself at a time like that, where Mickey was so low that he couldn’t drag himself up and out of bed, but he thought it anyway. 

“Mmm,” was Mickey’s only response, but it was good enough. 

“Did your collections today. S’why I got home so late.” 

“Home, huh?” Mickey monotoned, and maybe Ian shouldn’t have taken it personally. He didn’t mean for it to, but it stung anyway. 

“Why I got here so late,” he amended bitterly, detaching himself from Mickey’s side to stand up and shed the clothes that he’d fallen asleep in. 

“Don’t gotta be a bitch about it,” Mickey muttered tiredly, turning to face away from Ian once again. Ian wanted to fight. To yell and scream and shake him out of the- whatever-the-fuck it was. But it wasn’t the time. And he was right back to being Mickey’s punching bag. 

“You gonna get up today?” Ian changed the subject, watching the way Mickey’s back rose and fell with his breathing- his silhouette a dark lump against the light that was slowly turning from grey to blue. 

“No.” 

Ian let out a breath and pinched at the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes shut to combat the stinging that threatened his lashes. 

“You want me to leave until I have to go back to work?” 

Mickey turned over quickly, faster than Ian would have expected him to be able to- and stared imploringly through the heavy haze of the room. 

“I won’t,” Ian promised him, knowing that he was speaking without words. “But I know you need some time to sort,” he waved his hand between them, “whatever this is. So I’ll be in Yev’s room. Gotta get some sleep if I’m going to do both of our jobs.” 

Ian didn’t give Mickey a chance to say anything to that, not even with his puppy dog eyes or his quivering chin. Though, he did pause and the doorway, knocking on the frame. 

“I love you, Mickey. Even when you wanna take your shit out on me.” With that, he closed the door and made his way to Yevgeny’s room, where he wasn’t able to sleep. He stared at the ceiling until it was time to get up again.

He had to go back into Mickey’s room in order to get clean clothes for himself; he also managed to sneak in a quick shower in the attached bathroom. Not once in the thirty minutes that he spent in Mickey’s vicinity did Mickey look at him. His back was facing into the room, and he was turned towards the window. Ian couldn’t tell if he was asleep, but a part of him hoped that he was. Hoped that he was allowed a break from the pain that was tearing him up. 

The last thing that he wanted to do was wake him up, because when he got closer, he did notice the even way in which he was breathing. So he did the only thing he thought he could, and he found a piece of paper and a pen, quickly scribbling down a message, leaving it on the pillow next to Mickey’s head. 

_ I’ll be back tonight, I love you.  _

He took a few steps towards the bedroom door, but then he turned back, deciding to add a few words. 

_ I’ll be back tonight, I love you. More than anything.  _

After placing the note back, Ian left the house. He went about his day - threatening people, giving them money, sitting around, threatening people, sitting around; looking through some paperwork to make sure everything appeared as legal as possible, were anyone to start digging. Then he sat around some more. 

Eventually the diner closed and he got into the car with a list of four names, dollar amounts scribbled next to them, and he was off. 

The first one wasn’t so bad. It was a lady in her fifties, running a restaurant. He knocked on the door, and explained that he needed the money that she owed. 

“I… I don’t have it.”

“We both know you have it, honey, I wasn’t born yesterday.” It wasn’t like Ian to speak like that, but something about collecting brought it out. Brought out the need to feel as if he was in power - the need to make others afraid of him. 

“Well, I could offer somethin’ else,” she cooed, trailing a painted nail across his bicep, smiling salacious it like she’d give him anything and everything- and he couldn’t help but wonder why all these old broads thought he’d forget about a substantial stack for a little bit of pussy. He was certain that even if he were straight as an arrow- it wouldn’t work. 

“I’m not interested in that, sweetheart,” he shook his head and with his pointer finger and thumb, he picked her finger up and sat it at her side. He was losing his patience, if he had any to begin with, and things were about to go south if she didn’t get her shit together, and real quick. 

“Not interested in the ladies, I see,” she tisked, and before Ian had a chance to say anything at all, she was calling over her shoulder. “Donnie, come in here!” 

“Ma’am, I don’t have time for-,” Ian started, but was cut off when a man around his age came in- looking every bit of a movie star on the silver screen. 

“You need something, Ma?” He asked, wiping his hand on the white apron tied around his waist. He was beautiful, truly, and Ian was so confused by everything that was happening. Did she call him out as her muscle? Ian was ready for a fight- especially against this pretty boy. 

“This man here works for Mister Milkovich. Time to pay our debts. Said he don’t want a lady,” she told him, an air of faux regret in her words. “Think maybe you could help him out instead?” 

Ian’s stomach sank. What in the back-woods-Alabama-sister-fuck was going on? Was this mother trying to pimp out her fucking son? Ian was revolted, even more when the man spoke. 

“You looking for cock?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as Ian’s mouth fell open. Anger bubbles in his veins. At the mother. Her son. Himself. Mickey for making him be there. 

“You calling me a fucking pillow biter?” He asked, channeling his inner Mickey, hoping his voice would come out suggesting that he wouldn’t hesitate to stick his gun on the soft underside of that guy’s jaw. Silently, the woman slipped out of the room, as Ian took a step closer, hand on the weapon that was tucked into the waistband of his slacks. 

“You can calm down, I won’t say anything,” the man - Donnie - made sure Ian knew, seemingly not shaken by the revolver that Ian was slowly pulling out. “I assume if Mr. Milkovich sent you here, you know about our agreement - there’s no need to be afraid of it getting out, I’m as much at risk as you.” 

Ian wasn’t sure what to say to that. He was standing there like a mannequin, weapon dangling from his hand as he desperately tried to put the pieces together. 

“What - what agreement, exactly?” Ian shouldn’t be asking - he knew that he shouldn’t be asking. Digging never led to anything good. “What agreement do you have with Mr. Milkovich?” Ian repeated, voice stronger now, as he took a step closer, and pressed the mouth of the revolver to the side of the man’s neck. 

“Oh - I’m sorry, he’s usually the one coming here to collect, so if he sent someone else, I just thought - never mind, forget I said anything,” Donnie babbled, but Ian stayed silent, adding pressure to the weapon, silently asking again. Or else. “Okay - well, we needed money, so we borrowed some, but a lot of the time this place doesn’t make a lot of profit, so Mickey’ll come in and collect, but he’ll really cover the cost himself. Because - “

“Because you’re fucking him,” Ian finished with a bitter chuckle. 

“Well - “ Donnie didn’t have enough time to start a second word before Ian had used the base of the weapon to slam into his temple, sending him tumbling to the floor. It didn’t stop there; he tucked the revolver back into the waistband of his slacks, and he used his fists to knock him down again - until he heard a bone in his nose crack; until he saw the blood rushing down his face. 

Ian didn’t know where it was coming from - he didn’t know if it was because he was sad about Aleksandr, worried about Mickey, angry at the world, or jealous because this man had been inside of the man he loved - perhaps it was all of it. Either way, he just couldn’t stop. 

He hit and hit and hit, didn’t know anything but the way the man beneath him grew further and further away, and Ian couldn’t understand why. He struggled and fought to get back at him as he coughed out a bubble of blood and rolled to his side with a groan. 

“Lemme go!” Ian screeched, fighting against the arms that he finally noticed, wrapped around him tightly and dragging him away. “That fucking bastard! That fucking- fucking bitch!” He panted out, losing his strength steadily as he was thrown against the floor and pinned down. 

“Calm down!” An authoritative voice barked in his ear, but even then, he kept trying to get up, vision tunneled on one man and one man alone. “You’re gonna add resisting to your charges!” 

Ian didn’t care, even when he realized that the cuffs on his wrists were definitely police issued, and the flashing lights streaming in through the window weren’t his reddened vision- but rather coming from more than one police cruiser. He was hauled to his feet soon after, and if you’d asked Ian later, he wouldn’t remember screaming profanities about men fucking men that they shouldn’t (to the outside world it would sound very like Ian was homophobic and not pissed off that his- Mickey- was getting pounded by some fucking dish boy).

“Jesus, pal. You put up some fight,” his arresting officer breathed once he’d climbed into the driver’s side of his squad car, just after throwing Ian, still handcuffed, in the backseat and slammed the door behind him. 

Ian kept quiet. There wasn’t anything to say.


	21. twenty one

Prison had always been the one place Ian had sworn he would never end up in. Of course, he had done a brief stint in a juvenile detention facility before he had turned eighteen, but that wasn’t the same thing. 

When he had been placed into the back of that police cruiser, and he had realized that he was most likely going away for assault, he had wanted to cry. 

A month later, he was sitting in prison, and it turned out that it wasn’t quite as bad as he had imagined. He would love to be any place else, of course, but he was tall, muscular - he had spent enough time hanging around the Milkovichs to know how to intimidate people into leaving him alone. 

Besides - a part of him was happy to be away from Mickey. He had been so fucking stupid. He had been there for him, he had comforted him, told him he loved him more times than he could count, and Mickey had been out on the street, getting fucked by some down-on-his-luck dishwasher? If Ian would have made it home - to Mickey’s - if Ian would have made it to Mickey’s, instead of getting arrested, he wasn’t so sure what would have happened. He was glad that he didn’t have to know. Perhaps Mickey would have convinced him to stay, but considering the fact that Ian had been in custody for a little over four weeks, and he hadn’t received as much as a phone call, or a fucking letter - he doubted it. The entire thing had clearly meant a lot more to him than it had meant to Mickey. 

“It’s been nice knowing you,” Ian’s cellmate said to him, as the guard came to their door to bring him out into society. 

“Wish I could say the same,” Ian muttered, not tearing his eyes off of the crack in the ceiling as the gruff man left; he hadn’t been too bad - silent enough. 

“Gallagher.” The guard called his attention, and he turned his head from where he laid on the top bunk. “You’re switching cells, gonna be back to move you. Collect your things.” 

Ian sighed to himself, but gave him a nod as he pushed the door closed and locked it, leaving Ian to gather the few books, and other various items that he had collected over the past weeks. 

Five minutes later, the guard was back, and he waved Ian out into the hallway, placing a hand in between his shoulder blades, just to remind him not to try anything. 

“Who’s my new cellmate?” Ian asked, even though he knew what answer he would inevitably end up receiving. 

“I’m not the warden, ginger, I just do what I’m told.” Ian sighed, as they came to a stop, the guard unlocking the door, pushing him inside. “You better not try anything with this new one, Milkovich, I’m sick of hauling you to solitary.”

As he heard the cell door being slammed shut, and locked behind him, the name didn’t bother him too much. There were a lot of Milkovichs in Chicago, and clearly, a lot of them were on the wrong side of the law. But then his eyes fell upon the man leaning against the frame of the bunk bed, and his blood started to boil. 

“Hey, man,” Mickey said. 

“What the fuck?” Ian couldn’t help but exclaim, delivering a push to his chest, the metal bed frame probably bruising his back. 

“Ow, Jesus Christ, good to see you, too, honey,” Mickey groused, reaching behind himself you rub at his spine. 

“Honey? Fuck you, Mickey, you stupid fucking prick.” Apparently, prison hadn’t done much to calm his nerves- not that he’d expected it to, but the distance between Mickey wasn’t so bad. Or, it was actually really fucking bad, but it did grant him the ability to see everything for what it was; a big fucking mistake. Ian tossed his heart around like it didn’t have any real weight, and it got stomped on in return. 

“Y’know, this really ain’t the way I thought this would go down,” Mickey mumbled confusedly. 

“Go down? What? What the fuck are you even doing here?” Ian asked, and all at once, it settled down on him. Mickey was there. In the cell with him. Wearing a black and white striped uniform, just like he was. Mickey was there. Mickey was  _ there _ . 

“Got my ass tossed in to take care of your ass, fuck you very much. You’re welcome,” Mickey spat sarcastically, and Ian could almost see his metaphorical hackles rising defensively. 

Ian shook his head and pinched his eyes closed, trying to make sense of anything that Mickey was saying. But it was as if he were back to square one on his Ukrainian lessons, and Mickey was refusing to speak English. 

“What?” He finally asked again. “You don’t write. You don’t come visit? And now you’re just- here?” 

“I was in jail, numb nuts. How the fuck’m I ‘spose to come visit your giant, freckled ass when I’m sitting behind bars? Finally got us in the same cell, a thank you'd be nice.” 

“How long you been in?” Ian questioned, momentarily forgetting that he was mad, he was fucking infuriated with the man standing in front of him. And in that moment, he was worried, a stabbing pang of fear igniting inside of him- as if he weren’t also standing there with a cement wall topped with razor wire stopping him from taking an evening stroll. 

“Went in the night after you did,” Mickey shrugged, thumbing at his nose sheepishly. 

“What?” 

“You know any words other than fucking, ‘what?’ Big boy time out get your tongue all tied up? Fuck.” 

“Mickey-,” Ian sighed, rolling his hand in a get-on-with-it motion. 

Mickey took a deep breath, and leaned back against the frame of the bunk beds. “Iggy came by my place. Said you got busted for beating some guy black and blue. So,” he shrugged again. “I got myself thrown in so you wouldn’t be by yourself.” 

Ian breathed steadily as he processed the information, butterflies making an untimely appearance in his stomach. He had a moment of thinking sweet things about him, about how much he must really love him. Until-

“Yeah I beat the shit out of your boyfriend, you cheating piece of shit,” he growled, taking a step forward as if he were about to do the same to Mickey. Mickey didn’t seem threatened - nor apologetic, or… anything other than confused. He furrowed his brows, forehead developing creases deeper than Ian had seen before. 

“Boyfriend? The fuck?” Ian thought perhaps that was the very first time that he had ever heard Mickey’s voice drowned in pure confusion - he wasn’t angry and confused, or accusatory and confused - just confused. “You been smokin’ somethin’ in here?” 

“Oh, don’t fucking do that, Mick - don’t treat me like I’m a fucking idiot,” Ian said, giving Mickey another push before he turned around, needing a break from looking at his face. If he stared into those eyes for another second, he would either kiss him or punch him, and he wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“Would you just fucking talk to me like a normal fucking person?” Mickey asked, taking on the role that Ian typically carried in their relationship. 

“The fucking dishwasher whore,” Ian exclaimed, turning back around, and throwing his arms out to the side. “The dishwasher whore, what’s his name - Dennis?”

“Donnie.”

“Like I give a shit. I went to collect, I went to do your job ‘cause I wanted to take care of you, and what did I fucking get?” Ian asked, taking a few steps closer, his hand curling around the collar of Mickey’s uniform. “I find out my boyfriend’s been bending-”

“Who the fuck said I was your boyfriend?”

“-over for whoever fucking wants him!” 

They both raised their voices, determined to make their words the loudest; then there was a lull - a beat of silence when Ian still held onto the fabric of Mickey’s uniform, tightening it around his throat until his skin grew slightly paler around the edge of it. Ian could feel Mickey’s breathing fan out across his face, and finally, he had to let go, giving him another push - this time, Mickey was prepared, holding onto the frame to protect his back. 

“Yeah, fuck me, right?” Ian spit, backing away. “I can tell you how much I love you and hear you tell me how much you love me back, and I can have you bent over the kitchen island, screaming for my cock when it’s already buried so deep inside you I can feel your fucking organs - but god fucking forbid I call you my boyfriend.” Ian turned around, trying to even out his breathing; trying to keep himself from ripping Mickey to shreds. If he did that, he would be in prison for a lot more than five more months, and then his family wouldn’t be able to pay their bills. It wasn’t worth it. 

“Look, you got it wrong, man…” He heard after what had to have been a full minute. He heard Mickey’s steps shuffling across the concrete floor. 

“Yeah? How’s that?” Ian laughed bitterly. 

“Look - yeah, I fucked him a couple times. More than a couple times,” Mickey admitted. “I mean, can you fucking blame me for taking what I can get? Most times it’s a trap, man - people wanna find out if you’re into it and bash the shit out of you.” Another bitter chuckle left Ian’s throat, as he turned around, once again coming face to face with Mickey. 

“What you can get?” He hissed. “What you can fucking get? What about me, Mick? I wasn’t good enough?” 

“Shut the fuck up and listen, okay? I’m fucking getting to it!” Mickey raised his voice again, and Ian sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s the point, man - I fucked him, but not since us. Not since I met you.” 

“You’re lying - “

“How often do I collect?” 

“Few times a year.” 

“What did Donnie think you were there for?” 

“A fuck.”

“Why’d he think I sent someone else to collect something other than money if I hadn’t done it before? Couple other guys are… you know, not into women, so I figured since I didn’t want his ass anymore, I’d let ‘em collect.” 

“So you’re fucking Dennis-" Ian sneered, just to poke the bear. "-and the other guys, then? That what I’m hearing here?” Ian was near ready to incite real violence, the kind where they’d ship Mickey back home to his dad in a shoe box, because that’s all that’d be left of him. 

“You’re dumb. Real dumb,” Mickey said disappointedly as his eyebrows rose high and higher on his forehead, perfectly arched to punctuate his every word. 

“Oh, fuck you!” 

“No, would you just listen? Stop coming in with your preconceived ideas about how bad’a person you think I am?” Mickey asked with a prominent vein in his neck looking like it was near bursting. “I don’t fuck him. I let other guys, who want to fuck him, fuck him. I. Do. Not. Fuck him. We clear?” 

“You don’t fuck him,” Ian deadpanned, and shit, maybe he was dumb. 

“I don’t fuck him. Because I met you,” Mickey said slowly, as if Ian were a child. And, okay, maybe he was acting like one, but that didn’t give Mickey the right- 

“Soon as I met you, I quit fucking him, alright? You get it now? I spell it out enough for you?” 

“You stopped when you met me? Not when we got together?” 

Mickey sighed, looking shy and uncertain as he scratched at his temple. “When I met you.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, now you’re mad that I’m  _ not _ fucking him? There any pleasing you?” 

“Mikhailo-,” Ian cut, just to make Mickey understand that he was serious. He was in fucking prison because of it, and he had every right to know. 

“I don’t know, Ian. Same reason I didn’t fucking...” he waved a hand around, “that first night. Same reason I fought for you to be on my crew. You’re under my skin, man. Fuck can I do?”

Ian sighed, letting a silence hover in between them for a moment before he took a step towards Mickey. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He wanted to take Mickey into his arms and apologize, but a part of him still wanted to blame Mickey for… for nothing, really - sometimes it just felt really good to be angry. Another part of him didn’t feel like he deserved to have Mickey in his arms after jumping into conclusions like that. 

Eventually, he settled for settling one of his hands onto Mickey’s shoulder, his thumb brushing across the soft skin of his neck. 

“I’m not really a dreamboat, am I?” Ian sighed. “‘M sorry.” Mickey’s hand came up to rest around his wrist, before traveling up to lace their fingers together, his thumb brushing across Ian’s. 

“‘Fraid neither of us are,” he admitted, seemingly peering over Ian’s shoulder to make sure they weren’t being watched through the small, barred window in the door; then he took a step forwards, and let go of Ian’s hand so that both of his were free to grab onto the collar of Ian’s uniform. “‘S okay, though - never really wanted one of those.” 

“No?” Ian asked, now holding Mickey by the waist, his stomach growing warm with the sight of the blue eyes dancing in between his own, and his lips, and then back to his eyes again. “Then what do you want?” He couldn’t help but tease, raising his eyebrows, just ever so slightly - as if he truly didn’t know the answer to that question. 

“Man, fuck you.” Mickey rolled his eyes, and let go of him, freeing himself from Ian’s hold, so that he could turn around and head back to his bunk. Ian was quick to reach out and catch the loose fabric of his uniform, pulling him back around, and shoving him up against the stone white-painted concrete wall. “Mph.” The surprised sound that made its way out of Mickey’s throat was immediately swallowed down by Ian; his lips covered Mickey’s as he pinned his wrists to the wall above their heads. He had meant for it to be a quick kiss - and maybe a month ago, it would have been. But as soon as he felt it again - as soon as he had Mickey’s chapped lips against the tip of his tongue; as soon as he had his nose pressed into his cheek; as soon as he felt that warmth - that love - fill his stomach - he just couldn’t stop. 

They kissed, and they kissed, and they kissed. For the better part of an hour; until they were laying on Mickey’s bottom bunk, a blanket hanging down from Ian’s to shield them from view - somehow, they were still in their uniforms. Finally, Ian was the one to break it, opening his eyes to see the man on top of him - he took in his swollen lips, his blue eyes - and he should have said something sweet. Instead he swallowed down a chuckle. Mickey noticed. 

“The fuck you laughing at?” 

“You really think I couldn’t handle myself in here, or d’you just think you couldn’t be without me for six months?” 

“What would I wanna do that for?” He asked, as if it were obvious. And then, leaning down so that his face was just next to Ian’s, “And no, don’t think you could handle yourself.” Ian rolled his eyes at Mickey’s obvious tease, and pushed him off with a think against his chest. Mickey landed next to Ian on his side, and before Mickey had any thoughts about rolling away, Ian wrapped a tight arm around him and squished their bodies together just as he always had. 

“You got thrown in because you love me,” Ian asked without actually asking. He said it because he already knew the answer -it was painfully obvious- but he wanted to hear it anyway. 

“Yeah,” Mickey did a half shrug of the shoulder that was closest to the ceiling. 

“So say it.” 

Mickey shuffled around, lifting up Ian’s arm that’s wrapped around his waist so that he can turn over. They laid on the half inch thick mattress, uncomfortable as all hell, breathing each other in. Mickey’s hand came up, and in a move Ian didn’t see coming from a mile away, wrapped around Ian’s, lacing their fingers- the two pieces of the same puzzle that they were. 

“I love you,” he finally breathes, and Ian, in turn, let’s the butterflies swoop and swirl and aerial dive around in his belly. 

“I love you, too.”

✦✦✦

The next couple of weeks ticked by quite smoothly - considering, at least. They built up a routine - not completely on their own trms, of course, but a routine, nonetheless. Sometimes they would bicker - a given, when spending so many hours a day trapped so close together. But they got to spend a lot of their day apart, too - which hadn’t been an appealing idea to begin with, but the more days that passed, the more Ian realized that that fact was probably what kept them from killing each other. 

One day, Ian was heading out of the communal shower area, a towel wrapped around his waist, when he heard the distinct voice bouncing in between the tiled walls. 

“Are you kidding? Get the fuck outta here - I ain’t doin’ that shit.” 

They had agreed to leave each other be unless they really needed help - mostly because Mickey was protective as fuck, and it had started to get on Ian’s nerves how he would just show up as soon as he was talking to anybody else in the place. But Ian couldn’t help but head over, if only to make sure that no one was giving Mickey more than he could handle. 

When he came into Ian’s line of sight, he had a towel wrapped around his waist, just like himself - and he was standing in front of a man nearly double his height - with a full beard, and several tattoos that couldn’t have been done by someone who was talented at the craft. 

“You cannot say no. I deliver message from Terentius. No question,” the man spoke in broken English. 

It happened through a sort of strange mist that covered Ian’s vision. I thin, white haze at the edges -a vignette, his mind supplied unhelpfully. One minute Mickey was upright, and the next he wasn’t. I’m be minute Mickey’s mouth was flapping away, the next it had blood staining at his teeth as he neared them viciously as he thrashed and kicked and punched from his position on his back; noises coming from him as if he were something wild and feral. He was giving it to the guy good, objectively, but the other guy was giving it better- grabbing at Mickey’s collar to pull him up and slam him back

down. 

Distantly isn’t wondered why he was standing still. Why the man he loved was being beaten and he was just... watching. He thought he was probably a horrific piece of shit, watching like a scared little boy. At least until Mickey let out a pained grunt. And that one little noise -that resigned little, ‘ugh,’- snapped him out of it. His legs moved without any input from his brain. They just launched themselves against the concrete, pounding hard and fast. 

In a move he would later brag to Mickey that was like something out of the silver screen, Ian was flying through the air. He was sailing right for him, grabbing his broad shoulders and flipping them both over with Ian landing on top. He head butted him, then, feeling the immeasurable sting at his forehead and the bridge of his own nose, but it was a pain that he was able to file away for later. When Mickey was safe, maybe. 

His fingers curled around a thick tree stump of a neck, thumbs jabbing in at his Adam’s apple, thighs squeezing you keep himself leveraged. 

“You our your fucking hands on him?” He gritted out, using all of his strength to keep his opponent down. The man’s fingers tried desperately to wind around Ian’s, scrabbling pathetically to release the hold, but Ian wasn’t about to be moved. “You think you can touch him? You think I’m gonna let you fucking put your hands on him? I’m gonna fucking kill you. I’m gonna fucking kill you. I’m gonna fucking-,” 

A pair of arms wrapped around his waist, hoisting him backwards, even as he fought through a blind rage to get back. To finish the job. Ian saw red. In the form of blood. In the form of rage. It was all red. 

“Get off me!” He screeched, uncaring who was holding him, only concerned with the blind need to protect Mickey. 

“Calm down, Fish!” Mickey barked, though it was clear that he was trying to keep himself from being heard by outside ears. 

“Gonna. Kill him. Gonna,” Ian fought feebly, out of breath and exhausted from exertion. 

“You kill him, you get extra time. It’s over. It’s done. He’s fucking down, man,” Mickey promised, panting beneath Ian where he laid on top of him, back to Mickey’s rising chest. 

Suddenly, they were both pulled to their feet by a group of guards.

“Alright, who started this? Who’s going to solitary?” One of them asked, looking to Ian, then to Mickey, then to their opponent. Ian met his eyes - he was still on the floor, blood pouring out his nose. Without uttering a single word - without using more than the look in his eye, and the tension of his jaw - he warned him. 

“I am,” the big guy grunted. “I started. My fault.” It was true - technically, even if Mickey had thrown the first punch. But Ian wasn’t sure that the guard believed him. Probably because they knew of Mickey and his family. Thankfully, the guard sighed. 

“All of you, get dressed. Jones - take Ivanov to solitary. Burke - escort Gallagher and Milkovich back to their cell.” 

One of the guards - Jones - took the guy away, and Ian and Mickey both got dressed in their uniforms, before Burke took them back through the hallways. 

“You got off easy, don’t try anything else.” Before Ian could launch into a rant about how it actually was Ivanov who had started the fight, and how he had just been protecting Mickey, the cell door was slammed shut, locked, and the heavy footsteps were fading in the distance. 

“He’s right, Fish.” Ian, who had been looking through the barred window in their cell door, silently cursing the guard out to himself, immediately spun around to face Mickey. 

“I’m sorry - what? I’m pretty sure he was talking to -” 

“It don’t matter who that jackass was talking to - you can’t be getting into fights like that, you’re gonna get in trouble - real fuckin’ trouble, a’ight? Trouble that’s gonna get you a hell of a lot more than six months.” 

“Getting into - Mickey, look at your fucking face! You think I’m gonna just stand around and watch some piece of shit do that to you?!” Ian argued, while simultaneously lifting his hands in an attempt to establish a contrasting, soft grip around Mickey’s face. Mickey backed away, and waved him off. 

“Bitch, who gives a shit about my face - think I ain’t looked like this before?! We’re talking about you!”

“No, we’re not!” Ian raised his voice enough that perhaps Mickey even seemed to flinch, just ever so slightly - surprised by the sudden burst of anger. Ian let Mickey win a good number of arguments in between them, but this was not one of those. “If you think you’re gonna win this, Mickey - I don’t know what fucking dream you’re living in. You want me to stand by and watch as someone takes their fists to your face?” 

“Yes!” 

“Like hell!” Ian yelled - screamed, even.

“You gotta -”

“You see someone beat me to a bloody pulp, you gonna stand by and do nothing?” Ian asked. 

“Don’t fucking turn this around -” 

“Answer the fucking question!” 

“No! Of course not, I’d fucking kill ‘em.” At that Ian widened his eyes, shaking his head, throwing his arms out to the side - ‘ _ there you go _ ’. What was it Mickey couldn’t understand about that? “It ain’t the same, Fish.” 

“Like hell it isn’t - listen to me, Mickey…” Ian slowly but surely let his voice come down in volume as he took a step closer, placing his hands around Mickey’s face in a soft grip - this time, he was allowed. Even if Mickey glared at him in a way that Ian had only ever really seen Yevgeny do. “I love you.” Ian didn’t know if he had ever said those three words with such finality, and determination - in his entire life. “I love you more than anything else in my life, and if you think for one fucking second that I’m gonna stand by and watch someone hurt you, I…” Ian sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s not fucking happening. If I get killed tryna protect you, so fucking be it, Mick.” 

Mickey slumped back a little, kind of let his weight fall from his knees against the cement wall that made up their temporary home. He let out a breath, through both his nose and his pursed mouth as he brought his lip to chew between his teeth. Eyes to the floor, he fidgeted helplessly with his fingers, and even if he didn’t say anything; Ian knew. 

“It scare you to have someone care for you?” He asked. He could read between the lines. Tell that Mickey never had anyone, save for maybe his uncle and his son (who was far too young to really show it). 

“Not scared,” Mickey mumbled, though his voice lacked any real depth. 

“Good,” Ian smirked. He knew Mickey was lying, but he wouldn’t call him out for it. Not then. Not when Mickey looked so vulnerable and small and so in need of just some fucking attention. “So just lemme take care of you sometimes, yeah?” He took a step closer and slotted his hands against Mickey’s hips, rubbing his thumbs delicately over the waistband of his uniform pants. “Let me love you.”

“Ain’t got much of a choice, do I?” Mickey huffed, but Ian could see the edges of his mouth being tugged upwards. Ian shook his head, placing his hand on the back of Mickey’s neck, about to go in for a kiss. Before he could, Mickey pushed him away, and looked over his shoulder, before nodding towards the bottom bunk. “In.” 

Ian grinned, moving the sheet to the side, and crawling into the dark of Mickey’s bed. It wasn’t very subtle - the sheet - but they weren’t the only ones that had them - for all the guards could care, maybe the prisoners on the lower bunks just liked their own privacy for no particular reason whatsoever. With both of them hidden from view, Mickey pushed Ian down onto his back, being tugged along, thanks to the large hands holding onto his waist. 

“Dick,” Mickey grunted. “Take your fucking pants off.” Despite the request, Ian didn’t have enough time to obey before Mickey was moving down, tugging the striped pants along, including the issued boxers. 

It didn’t take long before Ian had one hand in Mickey’s hair, one hand in his own, and his teeth dug into his bottom lip, muffling his sounds as Mickey swallowed him down; better than he ever had before. 

Once Ian was spent, chest heaving, he was distantly aware of Mickey pulling his boxers back up, leaving the pants by his knees, before he crawled back up the skinny mattress, collapsing next to him. Ian hummed, eyes still closed, as he maneuvered his arm under Mickey’s neck so that he could pull him close.

“Where the fuck d’that come from?” Ian sighed. It wasn’t that Mickey had never sucked him off before - he had, a few times. But never quite like that - never so enthusiastically. Never from start to finish. It was usually either a precursor, or a finale. Mickey grunted a few words that sounded a lot like ‘ _ none of your fuckin’ business. _ ’

With zero warning, Ian rolled them over, Mickey grunting in surprise as his wrists were pinned on either side of his head. Ian let a smirk take over his face as he let his face hover above Mickey’s, enjoying the way the blue eyes flickered in between his eyes and his lips.

“You don’t have to say it, I think I know,” Ian teased, feeling Mickey’s breath fan across his face. 

“The fuck?” Mickey asked, clearly fighting to keep his attitude up to compensate for the compromising position he had just put himself in. “You don’t know shit. You’re also heavy as fuck -” 

“So you don’t like it when I protect you?” Ian asked, fighting Mickey’s attempt to roll them back over. “Don’t get hard when I raise my voice?” Ian shook his head, the cocky expression on his face fading to mock innocence. “When I tell you what to do, it doesn’t make you wanna bend over?” Mickey was silent. “Oh. My bad,” Ian nodded, letting go of Mickey’s wrists, moving to pull his pants back up and move the sheet to the side. 

“Aye - come the fuck back.” Ian was tugged back into Mickey’s chest, both of them laughing into the kiss. 

✦✦✦

Later that night, while they were in separate bunks - because there was no way they would be able to get any sleep, otherwise. Partly because they would end up fucking, but mostly because the mattresses were barely wide enough to comfortably fit one grown man, let alone two - Ian couldn’t help but ask. 

“What did that guy want, Mick? It have something to do with Terry?” 

“Hmm?” Mickey’s voice was deep and scratchy, sleepy and soft all at once. It made Ian homesick for a home that wasn’t his- made him long so badly to be settled in to Mickey’s soft mattress with Mickey’s soft blanket covering them both and Mickey’s soft snores right in his ear. If he was honest, the couple do feet that separated them was the hardest part about prison- and he couldn’t help but realize that his time there would be a whole hell of a lot worse for him if Mickey weren’t there- and if Mickey’s family didn’t have some sort of pull. 

“That guy. What he want earlier?” 

There was a shuffling down below, the sound of Mickey punching at his wafer thin pillow, adjusting his starchy thin sheet. 

“Guess Terry told him that he wants us to start dealing in here. Tap into a new clientele or some shit,” he sighed, and Ian could tell that he was so, so tired. And bit just in the literal sense. 

“So what are we gonna do?” Ian asked quietly, vehemently against doing something stupid that could tack years on to his sentence- but also understanding that he had a role to play, and Terry was his puppet master. 

“Not fucking that! We’re gonna keep our noses clean so we can get home to our kid.” 

Ian’s blood singed. Our kid. Our kid. OUR KID. Mickey thought of Yevgeny as their kid. Ian thought of him in a fatherly way all along, he supposed. But hearing Mickey say it- he’d never wanted anything more. Than to hug him. See his bright blue eyes. Watch him as he squealed and played. He loved him. 

“I miss him,” Ian whispered, feeling the prickle of tears threaten his lash line. 

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed glumly. “Me too.” 

“You shouldn’t have gotten yourself locked up, Mick. He needs you...” Ian felt the guilt that he tried to box away and claw up to the surface. It’d always been there, distantly, but thinking of how it affected not only Mickey, but their family, too... the tears fell. 

“Hey,” Ian heard more shuffling, and soon Mickey was eye level with his second bunk. “You needed me, too. The kid’s got Svet for now. He’ll hardly even notice we’re gone.” 

“I’m sorry I was stupid,” Ian sniffled. “This is all my fault. Let my stupid fucking jealousy get in the way of thinking clearly. I’m sorry you’re in here because of me.” 

Mickey shook his head, frown evident even in the small sliver of moonlight the tiny, tiny window allowed. 

“I’m in here because I made the choice to be. Would I have made that choice if you weren’t here? Prolly not. But I made it. Me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have,” Ian swallowed, doing his best to stop the tears as he turned to lay on his side, facing Mickey who was still holding himself up to be eye-level with him. 

“You’re probably right, man,” he shrugged. “Do a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t.” Ian took a shaky breath as he registered the words. “Don’t mean I regret ‘em.” 

“C’mere,” Ian said, scooting closer to the wall. To his dismay, Mickey shook his head. 

“Nah, man - can’t find us like that tomorrow.” The tears dried up as Ian nodded - he was right, he knew he was. As much as he would like to have Mickey in his arms tonight, the consequences of a guard finding them curled up together were too big to deal with. “Terry’s probably gonna be in over his head, running the show soon. Probably get me out. I’ll get you out.” 

“Why didn’t you just get me out to begin with?” Ian asked, lifting his head from the thin pillow. 

“Look - Terry’s been a lot more of an asshole than I let on. Figured if I was gone for a couple months he’d figure out how much work I actually do.” 

“Appreciate you,” Ian finished. 

“Fuck no, man - I don’t give a shit ‘bout that - just figured he might let up a little bit. I don’t know.” Ian hummed in understanding. “Gotta crash, man. Night.” 

“Night,” Ian told him. The upper bunk rocked a little bit as Mickey jumped down, and got back into his own. Well after the faint snoring could be heard, Ian was still awake, stomach stirring with worry. 

✦✦✦

It wasn’t a week later when Mickey was bailed out and Ian was left alone.

An entire month went by, and Ian still sat behind cement walls and doors made of bars. A month went by and Ian still ate shitty food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A month went by and Ian didn’t hear anything from Mickey. But after five weeks, he was called to visitation and he couldn’t help but feel relieved. He wasn’t forgotten. And Mickey was going to get him out. Only; when he got to the room, Mickey wasn’t there. Instead, it was Iggy. 

“Jesus, Gallagher. You trying for heavy weight champion?” He smirked when Ian sat down across from him, shackles on his hands and feet. Ian hasn’t had much to do other than work out, and if he weren’t so pissed off about being locked up, he’d be proud of his new found muscular definition. He took a smoke from his pocket and lit it before handing it over to Ian, who sucked on it gratefully. 

“Where’s your fuckhead brother?” Ian asked, heart sinking with every word, with every minute that passed by. Mickey didn’t come for him. And he wasn’t going to. 

“He’s, uh, little tied up...”

“Oh, is he?” Ian snarked, holding up his cuff-clad wrists. 

“Look,” Iggy sighed, hand rubbing at the back of his neck nervously. “He’s working on it. Day and night. But Terry-,” 

“Terry what?” Ian snapped, feeling all sense of patience flying out the window. Fuck Terry. Ian was going to kill him himself. 

“Terry’s fighting him on it hard. Says that’s why we got the lower level guys. To take the fall for us when shit goes sideways. Says Mickey needs to learn how to run his own show with out his, ‘queer ass right hand.’” 

“You’re fucking kidding me. So Mickey’s just gonna let him make me stay in here? I’ve still got three fucking months! And Mickey ran his crew without me before. Terry doesn’t realize that?” Ian felt his face grow hot with anger. Terry was a fucking moron in every sense of the word. And Ian hated him. 

“Yeah, Mick ran his crew without you. But that was under different leadership. Things are... different now. Mick’s trying. I swear he is.” Iggy has the decency to look apologetic, and Ian was glad for it. It was nice to see that even if Terry was the way he was- at least his kids weren’t. 

“So why didn’t he come? Haven’t heard shit from him in over a fucking month.” Ian stubbed his cigarette out, maybe a little harder than was strictly necessary. 

“Terry’s keeping a close eye on him, like I said. It’s... risky.” Ian fought the urge to roll his eyes; it was a childish move to even want to do it, because if Iggy was telling the truth, Mickey wasn’t exactly spending his days on his couch with a bottle of beer in hand. But he couldn’t help it - he was annoyed. Annoyed with Mickey, annoyed with the situation - annoyed with himself for getting picked up in the first place. “He wants you out just as much as you do,” Iggy told him after a beat of silence; when Ian looked at him, he tried to see if there was anything in his eyes - any glimmer that would suggest that he wasn’t telling the truth. He couldn’t find anything. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” Iggy nodded. “Pops is just… uh…”

“Terry’s what?” 

“You know what he’s like to you?” Ian nodded. “Multiply it by a hundred, that’s what he’s like to me - multiply it by another hundred, that’s what he’s like to Mickey. And doubt I catch all o’ it, you know?” 

Finally, Ian could feel his shoulders involuntarily relax. He was right - he had to be. Ian wished he wasn’t. He wanted an excuse to be angry, but there was also the fact that he didn’t like the thought of Mickey being out there, dealing with Terry’s bullshit without Ian being there to let him cry on his shoulder, to let him be weak. If the two options were that, and Mickey being fine, but not giving a shit about Ian? Ian would prefer the latter any day. 

“I gotta get back,” Iggy started to stand, bringing his wrist up to take a look at his timepiece. 

“Thanks for coming,” Ian said. It wasn’t a lie - it wasn’t sarcasm. He was glad to have spoken to a Milkovich, even if it wasn’t his preferred one.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Iggy told him, and Ian could feel the edges of his lips twitching, as he got the mental image of Mickey, stressed to no fucking end, but still finding the time to threaten his brother to make sure he went to see Ian so that he would know he wasn’t forgotten. “He wants you to call him, by the way. Tomorrow, seven am,” Iggy said, handing a piece of paper over to the guard who was getting ready to take Ian back to his cell. The guard inspected the note to make sure it wasn’t hiding anything, before he handed it over to Ian. 

“Tell him I will,” Ian nodded. 

After that, Iggy left, and Ian was escorted back to his cell, still clutching the phone number in his fist. 

✦✦✦

Ian was one of the first people by the row of phones the next morning. Two minutes to seven when he carefully unfolded the piece of paper, and pulled the metal wheel to the first number, then letting it go, and going for the second. 

As he held up the phone to his ear, he found himself chewing his bottom lip, slightly… nervous? To hear Mickey’s voice for the first time in so long. It felt like a lifetime until the dialtones stopped, and he was greeted by the rough but beautiful sound.

“Fish?” 

“Yeah,” Ian sighed, doing his best to keep his composure. 

“You hanging in?” Mickey sounded hoarse, like maybe he was trying to keep it together just as much as Ian was. He hated it, but he didn’t at the same time. Misery loves its company, after all. 

“Be a lot better if I didn’t have to,” Ian shrugged, even if Mickey couldn’t see him. 

“I’m trying. I promise, Ian. I’m trying.”

The sincerity in his voice was everything Ian didn’t know he needed. Just to hear that someone was thinking about him. That someone was worried about him. It meant the world. 

“You talked to my family?” Ian asked, feeling a pang of guilt and regret that he hadn’t spoken to them in so long. It wasn’t that he was actively avoiding them, or maybe that was a lie, he supposed. It was just that he couldn’t see the way Fiona looked at him like he was a hurt little puppy, or the way that Lip looked at him like he wanted to throttle him. It was all them being disappointed in him. And it was him being disappointed in himself. 

“Little bit. Gave your sister some cash to keep afloat while you’re in there.” 

Ian breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been tossing and turning at night thinking about them going hungry. Thinking of them sitting in the dark with no heat. No water. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m not gonna let your family suffer, man. My fault,” he cleared his throat. “My fault you’re in there in the first place.” 

“Mick-,” 

“Don’t, Ian...”

“No, listen to me, Mikhailo.” Ian lowered his voice and looked around to make sure no one was paying attention. They weren’t- too wrapped up in themselves to give him a second thought. “S’not your fault. Okay? None of it.” 

“Fuck. Yeah, alright.” Mickey cleared his throat again, and Ian knew he was fighting not to cry. “I miss you.” 

Mickey wasn’t one for saying sweet things, and hearing it made Ian’s throat raw and his eyes burn. 

“Me too.” 

A voice came on the line, telling Ian that he had less than a minute left, and he squeezed his eyes shut in frustration- and sadness. He hated every second of it. Hated being away from everyone and everything. 

“I gotta go, Mick. Tell Yevy I love him and I’ll see him soon.” 

“I will,” Mickey rasped. 

“And you, too. Okay?” He wanted to say it, to tell Mickey he loved him, but that sort of thing, out in the open where anyone could hear- could judge- he couldn’t. 

“Yeah, man. Me too.” 

Ian swallowed, parting his lips to say goodbye, but before he could, the phone call was cut off, and he was alone. Again.


	22. twenty two

Nineteen weeks. That was how long Ian had been rotting inside of that prison cell when he finally - finally - saw the guard give him that look. That look of ‘ _ It’s been fun bossing you around, but I’m legally obligated to let you go now _ .’ 

Finally, he was escorted out of the quarters where he had been living for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, he was allowed to step out of the itchy, striped uniform, and into his own clothes - bloody as they were, from the night he had gotten arrested. Finally, he was allowed to sign the papers for his release - and finally - he was allowed to walk out of the building. A free man. A man with a record, but a free man, nonetheless. 

Ian hadn’t talked to Mickey in weeks - which hadn’t exactly been easy, but he had told himself that Mickey wasn’t forgetting about him, that he was working on it. That he was talking to people, pulling strings, putting up with Terry - and here was the evidence. 

His own clothes on his body, and a familiar black Cadillac in the parking lot.  


Ian forced himself to walk over like a normal person - instead of running or skipping like a schoolchild. He knew that his life probably wouldn’t be puppies and rainbows from here-on-out, but he thought perhaps he could allow himself just this one moment of happiness. 

“Goddamn, Fish. You do anything in there but work out?” Mickey greeted him as soon as he opened the door and got into the car - grateful that he had the roof up so they were allowed the slight privacy, despite the fact that the windows made it impossible for Ian to kiss him like he wanted to. 

“Day and night, just for you,” Ian teased. Mickey hummed, not at all subtle in the way he was checking him out - up and down, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “You can’t be looking at me like that, Mick, it’s been too fucking long, I’m gonna maul you.” 

Mickey laughed, shaking his head as he turned the key in the ignition, and started the drive out of the parking lot. 

“Want me to drop you off at home?” Mickey asked, and Ian felt slightly guilty that his first instinct - the first image his brain conjured up when Mickey said ‘ _ home _ ’ wasn’t the Gallagher house, but rather Mickey’s. 

“I wanna go to your place,” Ian said, his intentions made abundantly clear by the tone of his voice. Mickey gave him a brief glance, amusement dancing on his lips. 

“Can’t. It’s eleven am on a Tuesday, man - much as I want us to bang our brains out, I got shit to do.” 

"Okay..." Ian trailed off, drumming his fingers against his bouncing leg. "What about some backseat bingo?" He asked hopefully, feeling like a teenaged girl mooning after her quarterback boyfriend. 

"Ian," Mickey chided, clicking his tongue and taking a drag of his cigarette. 

"Mickey," Ian mocked, reaching over and pulling it from his lips so that he could finish it for himself, even as Mickey flailed and protested half heartedly. "Find an alley or something. I don't kiss you soon I literally might explode. It's for my health, Mickey. My health." 

"Anyone ever tell you that you're annoying as shit?" Mickey huffed, but Ian could see his eyes scanning for an appropriate place to pull over anyway, and his belly tickled itself from the inside. 

It took longer than Ian would have liked, skin itching and belly swooping, for Mickey to find a place to park. Ian was in the backseat before Mickey even shifted gears, pawing at him and hooking his finger beneath his collar. As soon as, they very second, the car was sat firmly in place, Ian tugged him back, giggling like an idiot as Mickey allowed himself to be pulled over the seat. 

He shifted in Ian’s lap, let himself be held and cradled before he moved in on Ian, lips fitting together even better than Ian remembered. His hands pressed into Mickey’s back, his hips, his thighs. Mickey’s hands tangled in his hair, squeezed his shoulders, held his face. It was the first time in nineteen weeks that he’d taken a full breath, and he was growing drunk with it. 

“Like your curls,” Mickey teased, tangling a finger in Ian’s unkempt, un-gelled hair. 

“Yeah? Go fuck yourself, ‘cause you won’t ever see ‘em again if I got anything to say about it.” 

“I’m sure we’ll end up back in the clink at some point,” Mickey said, but his tone was different. His smile fell. 

“Mick?”

Mickey shook his head, unfurling his body from Ian’s and climbing back up front. Ian followed, a little ungracefully, and seated himself in his usual spot, right next to Mickey. 

“Whatcha thinking about?” Ian asked as Mickey shifted back into drive and got them back on the road. 

“I just...” Mickey breathed, chewing on his lips before he lit up another lucky strike. “Don’t fucking repeat this. But. Being in there... having you in there. Just. Made me think, I guess.” 

“Okay...” Ian nodded, imploring Mickey silently to go on. 

“I’m thinking...” he sighed, taking a drag and blowing it out slowly. 

“Mick-,”

“Thinking I want out.” 

“What?” Ian asked, head snapping to face Mickey. He couldn’t possibly be understanding him right - Mickey couldn’t possibly be saying what Ian was hearing. Maybe prison had fucked him up - spending all of that time looking over his shoulder without anyone he trusted next to him. 

Ian kept his eyes on Mickey, noticing the way he chewed at his bottom lip, strictly keeping his attention on the road ahead of them. 

“You fuckin’ heard me,” Mickey stated after what felt like a lifetime. “I want out.” 

And Ian didn’t know what to say. Mickey left him breathless - and not in the way he was used to, not in a good way. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to feel, didn’t know what to think - he had so many questions. 

“You - you can get out?” Ian stupidly found himself asking, to which Mickey chuckled bitterly - though it didn’t sound as if he was bitter towards Ian, more so himself - the entire situation, perhaps. 

“Can do anything, man,” Mickey assured him. “Don’t mean it uh… don’t mean it’s gonna be easy. Don’t mean my life’s gonna be calm or any shit like that. Can’t keep my name or probably even stay in America - but you know…” Mickey trailed off, shrugging, eyes still on the road. 

Ian still didn’t know what to say. He had not seen this coming; for as long as he had known Mickey, he had been devoted to the family - hell, even when they were kids, everyone had known that the Milkovich family had each other’s backs, even if they hadn’t known the extent of it. 

“Why?” Ian finally managed to breathe, staring down at the floor of the car, doing his best to search the puzzle pieces within his brain for two that could possibly fit together and make him feel less thrown off. 

“Ain’t the life I want. Ain’t the life I want my son to have, man.” 

“What about his mom?” It was the only question Ian could put words to. It wasn’t as if Mickey could drag his son with him down to Mexico, Panama, or wherever - and not let him see his mother. 

“Yeah, Svet uh… she’s been mentioning it for a couple years. If I bring it up, I reckon she’ll go for it.” Ian swallowed down the irrational jealousy that arose with the thought that Svetlana might know Mickey better than he did - the reality was that she probably did. They had known each other for years. Ian had no reason to feel jealous. 

“What about me?” Ian asked. “What about my family?” 

“You get out, too. Come with me,” Mickey shrugged, as if it were the most obvious and straightforward thing he’d ever been asked. 

“Leave the country? My family...” Ian floundered as his breathing started to grow erratic and the blood in his veins started pumping harder and harder. 

“Yeah, you’d have to leave ‘em behind, but, I think they’d be safe.”

“You  _ think _ they’d be safe?! Mickey, I can’t fucking leave! If something happened, I-I don’t know what I’d do! You can’t- you can’t ask me to-to just up and fucking leave and put them in danger! Are you fucking crazy?” Ian was yelling, and it was something he hated doing. He was losing his shit, acting completely insane. But the air in the car was stifling. He was fresh from prison. And Mickey has just suggested that he put his family in harm's way for his own benefit. 

“Then don’t come,” Mickey sighed, not raising his voice, not looking angry. But rather, he seemed resigned. Like in the long run, what Ian chose to do or not to do didn’t really matter to him all that much. 

“We took an oath...” Ian scoffed, letting the hurt from Mickey’s words wash over him. 

“You know what that fucking oath made you pledge, Ian? Fucking  _ suicide _ . Literally. You fuck up, you kill yourself. You fuck the family, you kill your self. You fucking breathe wrong, and believe me when I say you’re always gonna be fucking breathing wrong with Terry around, you fucking kill yourself. I don’t want my kid thinking he’s gotta bend over backwards for some fucked up family value. Fuck that,” Mickey spat his words of acid as Ian watched with an open mouth. 

“So now he’s back to being  _ your _ kid?” 

“Fuck you talking about? Yeah, he’s  _ my _ fucking kid.” 

“When we were in... y’know what?” Ian tittered mirthlessly. “It doesn’t matter. You take your kid and you fucking go. I guess some of us just have more loyalty than others.” 

“Don’t fucking talk to me about loyalty,” Mickey finally yelled. “You don’t know shit about fucking shit! Things ain’t sunshine and roses like you seem to think. This ain’t a movie. This is real fucking life and my kid deserves more from it!” 

“I never said he didn’t!” Ian screamed back. And then, quieter, “...I just thought I’d be a part of it. His life.”

“Who the fuck’s telling you you can’t be?” Mickey shrugged. Ian looked to him, harsh words on his tongue. He swallowed them down. This was not how he had pictured spending his first day as a free man, and he surely wasn’t about to make it any worse. So he just huffed, and shook his head. “We’re here,” Mickey announced monotonously as he pulled up in front of the Gallagher house. Ian couldn’t decide if he wanted to vomit at the sight, or run inside like a child. 

“Great, thanks,” Ian said flatly, as he opened the door of the car. 

“Aye - “ He felt the fabric of his shirt being tugged, pulling him back into his seat, and he looked to Mickey, raising his eyebrows in question. He felt himself soften, slightly, though, when he noticed the look on Mickey’s face - appearing almost… apologetic, or sad, or tired - all of it, perhaps. He watched as he tilted his head slightly to the side, a silent ‘ _ come here _ ’ despite their ongoing argument. 

Ian briefly looked across the surrounding area to make sure they weren’t being watched; then he leaned over, catching the intoxicating lips in between his own, making sure to make it deep, and firm - an ‘ _ I love you _ ’ without him having to say the words. 

Ian wasn’t sure if they had ever kissed like that before - if they had ever held a kiss for what had to be close to thirty seconds; without moving, without it turning into a makeout - they just stayed in that kiss, as if it were a hug. He supposed it wasn’t too far from it - a comforting touch that they both needed. 

When they finally parted, Ian brushed a thumb across the cheek he loved. 

“You coming over tonight?” Mickey asked, looking up at Ian through the dark lashes. He didn’t sound as if he was planning a fuck - or as if he was off-handedly mentioning it as an option. It sounded as if he was asking him - as if he wanted to… as if he wanted Ian to spend the night, just in case there wouldn’t be too many of those spent together in the future. 

A part of Ian wanted to blow him off, say that he needed to spend time with ‘his own’ family - just to throw the Yevgeny thing back into his face. But it was so, so rare for Mickey to extend an olive branch. Ian couldn’t do that to him. 

“Yeah,” Ian nodded, tearing their eye contact as he got out of the car. 

Mickey drove away, and Ian was left to walk into the house to greet the siblings he felt he didn’t deserve. 

Of all of the ways that Ian had been greeted in his life, he decided that, “Hey jailbird,” was definitely his least favorite, especially when spoken by his older brother with that shit eating grin. He hugged him anyway, and then his sisters, and then his younger brothers. He hugged them all as tightly as he could, having missed them all, of course, but also squeezing them extra tight- thanks to even a glimmer of a thought of leaving them. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

“Making meatloaf for dinner,” Fiona smiled brightly, knowing that it was one of Ian’s favorites. 

“That sounds great, Fi.” He tried to smile back, tried to properly thank her for thinking of him, especially when he was back from fucking prison, a fucking delinquent and cause for shame. But he couldn’t. 

“You okay, sweet face?” She asked, ever the mother, as a frown took over her lips and pointed them south. Ian cringed internally, hating that after having been there for only a moment, he was already making waves. Already making their lives worse. He would do better. He had to. 

“Yeah, I’m great...” He was finally able to pull a weak smile that time, though it was strained. “I’m just really tired. You, uh, you mind if I head up and sleep for a little while? You can wake me up for dinner?” 

“Sure, yeah. Okay. I can do that. You look like you haven’t slept at all. You go do that.” He could tell that she was talking more to herself, giving herself a pep talk so that she wouldn’t go off the deep end and interrogate him for hours on end. And he appreciated it. 

He gave her one last nod and headed for the stairs, intent on collapsing in his shitty little bed and drowning out the world with his own soft snoring, when she spoke again, drawing him to turn around and face her head on. 

“You’ll be careful from now on, right? With, uh, with whatever it is that you do. You won’t go back?” 

He froze in place, never really considering that his family might have some inkling as to how he was spending his time. But from an outside perspective, he could see how she drew the conclusion. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Who made that much money as a line cook at a shitty diner? No one, that’s who. 

“I’ll be more careful,” he promised, but didn’t offer anything else. He didn’t have anymore to give.

He made his way up the staircase, wondering if they had added a few steps while he was in prison, because it felt a lot longer and more treacherous than normal. Then again, perhaps that was just the same exhaustion that caused him to conk out the second his head hit the pillow. He didn’t wake until Carl was punching his arm, telling him that the meatloaf was ready. 

Ian ate the delicious food, appreciated the company of his siblings - forced himself to smile at the prison quips. Eventually, the food was gone, and most of the Gallaghers had retreated to their rooms, leaving Fiona to clean up - Ian helped. 

“I uh…” He started, as he rinsed the last plate, and handed it over to Fiona to dry. “I’m not staying at home tonight.”

“Okay,” she nodded, looking over to him before refocusing her attention onto the plate. “So everything’s okay with you and Mickey?”

Ian had never told her - not really - but with as many nights as he had spent out of the house - sometimes full weeks - and considering the fact that Mickey was the only person outside of their family that they ever saw come around - it wasn’t much of a puzzle to solve. 

Ian wanted to say yes - so that the conversation could end there, and he didn’t have to walk into a full-blown life lecture - but he couldn’t lie to her. Not anymore. 

“Uh… so so,” he settled on. 

With the dishes done and placed back into the cupboards, Fiona frowned, leaning her hip against the counter, looking at him with those big brown eyes that always made Ian feel like he didn’t deserve the dirt beneath her shoe. She was too… good. 

“You know you can talk to me, right, sweetface? About anything, no matter what.” Ian nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat that the reminder brought up. 

“I know,” he promised, going in for a hug. “I know.” 

✦✦✦

When Ian finally pulled himself away from the warm light and comforting feelings of the Gallagher house, he drove to Mickey’s house as fast as he could - as fast as he could without seriously risking causing an accident, at least. He just wanted to get there. He wanted to grab Mickey and kiss him, and fuck him until he passed out, and fall asleep with him in his arms. It was a strange feeling to Ian - he was used to wanting Mickey, used to needing Mickey, but usually the feeling was soft - wanted to kiss his eyelids and tell him how much he loved him. Tonight, he just wanted to bury his teeth in his neck, breathe him in as he felt his nails temporarily scar his back. Ian needed to drown in Mickey. And he was determined to push away the voice in the back of his head that told him it was because he feared he may never again get the chance to. 

Ian knocked on the door, and when Mickey opened, he didn’t give him a chance to say or do anything before he was on him; kissing him like Mickey was water, and Ian had been stranded in the desert. Holding onto his hair like the strands were a buoy in the middle of the ocean, and Ian couldn’t swim; frantically tearing at his clothes like they were burning his skin. 

“I want you in my bed,” Mickey murmured against his lips, tugging at his bare arms and walking backwards toward the steps. They weren’t exactly easy to traverse, with Ian guiding him up and back, and with Mickey stopping every so often to kiss and kiss at his neck, his shoulders, his chest. Ian returned the favor tenfold, always having been a little more affectionate, and it’d been so long since he was able to just... feel him. Be with him. Next to him. Touch him. 

The bedroom was exactly how Ian remembered it, only this time the bed was made up and Mickey wasn’t a sullen limo beneath the comforter. The moon shone in between the gap in the curtains, saving a cool white glow to the room, and as Ian pushed Mickey onto his back with a bounce on the mattress, he was taken by how that same pale light made Mickey’s skin glow in the dark. 

“Fuck,” he cursed quietly, knocking Mickey’s legs open with his own knee before he settled in between them. “S’been too long,” he whispered as his lips attached to Mickey’s throat. 

“You gonna keep being soft with me like I’m some bitch, or you gonna fuck me like a man?” 

Ian laughed. Mickey looked up at him with grumpy eyes and a scowl painted over his lips, raising an eyebrow in a dare. 

“You want me to fuck you like a man, huh?” He teased, but even as he said it, his hand was wandering to the bedside table where he knew Mickey kept their supplies. 

“F’you think you got it in you,” Mickey punched out as Ian started to slide a slicked up finger inside of him. 

“Think you’re about to have a whole lot in  _ you _ ,” Ian grinned, only just starting to feel a little like himself again. 

When Mickey didn’t say anything back, Ian pushed in another, curling them both upwards delicately and watching the way Mickey’s mouth fell open and his eyes squeezed shut. 

“‘M’ the only one who can give you what you want, huh?” Ian questioned, quirking his wrist in just the way he knew would make Mickey punch out a little grunt. “The only one who’ll ever know just what you need.” 

His third and final finger was added, and he felt his own mouth fall open at the little nosies Mickey was letting out. Soft ‘ooh’s,’ and punchy ‘Ah, ah, ah’s,’ provides the soundscape in the quiet room, and Ian felt himself growing wild with each one. 

“You gonna,” Mickey breathed, “fucking fuck me sometime tonight, bitch?” 

A part of Ian wanted to deny him - wanted to take his time with the prep, wanted to make him leak and whine and beg - a bigger part of him wanted to go as fast and as hard as possible - didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to think - wanted to drown in him. Drown in them. That was the part that won; for Ian pulled his fingers out, delivering a light slap to Mickey’s thigh - a well-known signal for him to turn over. 

Ian’s mouth dried out at the sight of Mickey obeying his silent order - at the sight of him wrapping his hands around the top of the wooden headboard, and dropping the lower half of his body until his chest almost brushed the sheets. 

“Get the fuck on with -” Mickey impatiently curved his back, and placed his knees further apart, but before he could finish the verbal complaint, it was cut off by a surprised groan as Ian grabbed onto his hips and pushed inside of him, not giving either of them a second to adjust before he pulled out and repeated the action. 

It didn’t take long before Ian had the bed rocking against the wall so hard it was probably leaving dents - more dents than they had already left. The noises coming from Mickey’s throat were not quite the ones he usually made - usually he would moan, groan, even whine - tonight every thrust of Ian’s hips brought out more of a brief, wincing sigh. The sound someone would typically make right after stubbing their toe - as if Ian was hurting him with how hard he was pounding him. But at the same time, Mickey wasn’t exactly complaining - he was pushing back just as hard, meeting Ian halfway, his ass loudly slamming against Ian’s hips. 

Ian let his eyes fall shut, let himself drink in the feeling of being able to dig his fingertips into the perfect, pale, bruisable flesh. Without thinking much of it, and without opening his eyes, he landed a harsh slap to Mickey’s ass, before letting his hand slide along the curve of his spine, reaching the black hair. He tugged roughly, and Mickey immediately let go of the headboard, leaning his head back onto Ian’s shoulder, both of them on their knees. 

Mickey continued to make that slight wincing sound with every thrust; Ian still had his eyes closed, as he felt his hands reach around, grabbing onto his own cheeks, pushing him, encouraging him to go harder, to go deeper. 

Too lost in the moment, Ian kept his grip on Mickey’s hair, as he buried his nose in the crook of his neck, right below his ear. Suddenly, he felt his stomach drop; and he let his eyes blink open. 

Mickey was still lost, teeth digging into his bottom lip, eyes closed - completely oblivious to how fucking beautiful he looked. How perfect he was. How much he deserved. Not just mind blowing orgasms - he deserved happiness, love, safety. God, he deserved fucking everything. 

His hips all but stopped, stuttering with barely there pulses. Mickey made a noise of protest, turning his head just enough that he could give Ian the side eye; still with his teeth sunken into his lip. Still with his flushed cheeks visible even in the almost non existent light. His chest rose and fell with his breath- chest glistening with sweat. He was beautiful. And Ian loved him. 

His hand fell from his hair, instead wrapping lightly around his throat, just enough to hold him against his own chest. His other hand moved to the patch of skin just below his belly button, pulling him even closer against himself. 

His hips picked back up, then, slow, slow, slow, as he pushed himself in and dragged himself back out. Mickey’s hands came up to grip at Ian’s forearm, fingernails surely leaving half moons behind. His head fell back against Ian’s shoulder as he let himself be rocked into. 

“Fucking love you,” Ian told him as sincerely as he could, punctuating his words with tender kisses across Mickey’s exposed skin. He let his shoulders hunch forward, caving Mickey in as best as he could from his position, still sliding his hips languidly, almost lazily. 

“Love you,” Mickey said back, and all of the stress and tension from earlier in the day melted away, puddling at the ground and washing away with their heavy breathing and whispered words. 

Ian pulled out of Mickey - which normally would grant him some curses and complaints, but this time, Mickey was right there with him, falling onto his back and pulling Ian on top of him, faces buried in each other’s necks as Ian rocked back in. 

“I love you,” Ian sighed. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” he continued the whispers with each and every languid roll of his lower body. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he continued, adding a kiss with every repetition. To Mickey’s neck; to his jaw, to his collarbone, to his shoulder, to his cheek, to his forehead. 

“Fuck, I love you, too,” Mickey sighed, wrapping his arms around Ian’s neck, heels digging into Ian’s inner thighs. “Kiss me,” he demanded, breathlessly. He barely had enough time to finish the two words before Ian was diving down, fitting their lips together in that particular way that had to be a once in a lifetime experience. Mickey had to be his once in a lifetime. There was no other possibility. He would never find anything like this ever again - he knew that. 

They swallowed down each other’s sighs and moans as Ian reached down to wrap his hand around Mickey, slowly helping him along. It didn’t take very long before they were both there, Mickey covering both of them in white spurts, Ian coming deep inside of Mickey, teeth digging into the plump bottom lip, feeling a hand brush through the red strands at the back of his neck. 

“Shit,” Mickey chuckled, always eloquent in his own way. Ian couldn’t help but agree, rolling to his side and propping his face in his mind palm, just looking down at Mickey as if it were for the first time. And in a way, it was. The first time they’d ever made love, really made love, and it was like Ian was seeing him through new eyes. Where before he just saw Mickey, now he saw forever. His heart swelled in his chest as he leaned down to kiss at Mickey’s raw lips, soaking in the way his throat rumbled out a hum of approval. 

But as all good things do, it came to an end. 

“So you decided to come with me?” Mickey asked, and Ian didn’t miss the hopeful way his voice bubbled and bounced, much like a kid getting just what they asked for on Christmas. 

Ian drew back as if he’d been burnt, eyes growing wide and mouth falling open. Hadn’t they already squashed this? Hadn’t he explained to Mickey just how unwilling he was to leave? Beyond that, he couldn’t leave! Too many lives would be put at risk, and for what? For him to run off with a man that wouldn’t even call him his boyfriend? 

“Mickey-,” he sighed, just trying, pleading, begging not to have that same conversation again. 

“We can head to Mexico or some shit,” Mickey shrugged, leaving over to light a cigarette. “Bet your pale ass burns like a mother fucker.” 

“Mickey-,” 

“Spanish prolly ain’t that hard to learn, puta,” he laughed, though there was something off about it that Ian couldn’t place. 

“Mick-,” 

“Can send your family postcards, man. From the beach. The ocean!” 

“Mikhailo! Jesus Christ!” Ian finally snapped, unable to hear anymore. “I’m not fucking going! I-I thought we covered this! What’s wrong with you?”

Mickey frowned, cigarette hanging from in between his lips for a beat before he reached up and took it between his fingers. 

“The fuck? I just figured - “

“You figured wrong, Mick,” Ian shook his head. 

“Excuse the fuck outta me for thinkin’ you changed your mind when you come over to my place and fuck my goddamn brains out while repeating how much you -” Mickey cut himself off, a silence hanging in between them as Ian saw something in his eyes change - a glimmer disappeared, a spark was put out. A sadness took their place. He raised an eyebrow to himself as he shifted his eyes into his lap. “That was you sayin’ goodbye.” 

Until Mickey said those words, Ian hadn’t been aware that that had been the case. He had thought that he just wanted to forget about their dilemma - their future that surely wouldn’t be  _ theirs _ . But the minute that Mickey stated it, Ian realized that he was right. 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, Mick. That was me saying goodbye.” Ian hummed, and Ian watched him place the cigarette back in between his lips, not speaking until the tobacco had left through his nose. He looked at Ian, the blue eyes cold even in the warm light of the bedroom. 

“So why you still here, then?” 

Ian swallowed, and stood to search the floor for his clothes, sure that some of them were still on the stairs, or by the front door. He got dressed in the ones he could find, and then he looked back at Mickey, who was strictly staring down at the mattress, ignoring him - avoiding him. Ian wanted to go over and press a kiss to his head, or his forehead - his lips, his shoulder - anything - but he wasn’t so sure that he would be able to leave, then. And he needed to. 

So he swallowed, and he turned around, heading for the doorway. 

“Don’t.” Ian closed his eyes, more than familiar with the particular thickness of Mickey’s voice that meant he was crying. Ian forbade himself from turning around, instead placing a hand in the doorway, his index finger knocking against the wood a couple times as he gathered up the courage to say what he needed to say. 

“Sorry.” Then he left. 

And if he cried, and if he screamed and punched his steering wheel, then that was no one's business but his own. 


	23. twenty three

Back on cooking duty, with no one to step in and declare him too good for such work, Ian couldn’t help but laugh. He was right back to where he started, wasn’t he? Instead of scoop the ice cream, blend the shake, it was fry the potatoes, plate the burger. Over and over all day long. Press the waffle maker, pour the syrup. Clean the griddle. Wipe the grease. Rinse and fucking repeat until he was blue in the face and red in the knuckles. Only occasionally did someone come in to take out a loan- but even then, he didn’t give a shit. The world seemed... less, and all he wanted was to go home and sleep until he couldn’t sleep anymore, and then try to do it again. 

He’d been working since 8 am, and he wasn’t scheduled off until 8 that night. A way for Terry to keep him out of sight and of out of mind, he supposed. It’d been the same schedule for four weeks, coincidentally the same amount of time that he and Mickey... well that he and Mickey hadn’t been talking. He missed him. More than missed him, he ached for him, but it didn’t matter. He was trying. Trying to move on. To be his own person. To forget about him. 

Some things are easier said than done. 

“Don’t go in-,” Ian heard, loudly and sharply from just outside of the swinging door, and he didn’t have much time to think about who the very familiar voice belonged to before his legs were getting knocked into and a pair of small arms wrapped themselves around them.

“Ian!” Yevgeny sobbed, looking much taller than the last time Ian had seen him- shit, seven (?) months before. He couldn’t help it- the stinging that gathered in his eyes when he bent down to give him a proper hug back. He squeezed him fiercely, shutting his eyes tightly to keep from letting his tears fall down his cheeks. 

It amazed him how quickly he could fall to pieces just by seeing someone. He’d always been a little on the sentimental side, or so he’d been told. But in that moment, he knew it was true. 

“Hey, Buddy. I missed you,” Ian choked out a laugh, pulling back just enough to ruffle Yevgeny’s longer hair. “Jesus. You went and grew like a foot on me! Barely even recognized you.”  Yevgeny didn’t seem happy to see him- his own tears falling freely and leaving behind pitiful little streaks on his reddened cheeks. 

“My pops said you aren’t friends anymore. He wouldn’t let me see you. Don’t let him do that, Ian!” 

Ian looked up as he heard the door swing closed, still crouched down, still with Yevgeny hugging tightly around his neck. Mickey stood impassively, a blank expression on his face as he took them in, though Ian could see, almost imperceptibly, the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed with a heavy swallow. 

Ian didn’t say anything, choosing instead to bury his face in Yevgeny’s shoulder, just as Yevgeny did to him. 

“Yevy,” Ian gently pried him away when he heard the clearing of Mickey’s throat. “We have to do what dad says, okay? Things are... just a little weird right now. But it’s okay, right? You’re good, I’m good. If pops says-,” 

“No!” Yevgeny cut in, a fresh wave of tears working themselves up. “I love you! Don’t let him make me stay away. Please!” 

“Yev-,” Mickey croaked, voice sounding completely unlike his steeled expression would suggest. 

“No! You already made him miss my birthday! -Ian, I’m five now- you can’t keep me away from him, pops!” Yevgeny spoke almost hysterically, fast and to both of them, his train of thought scattered and varied. It broke Ian’s heart even more so, if that were possible. 

“Yevgeny, we need to go,” Mickey tried again, but that only succeeded in making the little boy hold tighter. Cry harder. 

“Yevy, let me talk to your dad for a second, okay? Can you do that for me? Go talk to Dorothy for a minute, maybe?” Ian whispered into Yevgeny’s hair. 

“I wish you were my dad, too,” Yevgeny said back, chin quivering and looking every bit of his five years- in that he was small and vulnerable, and Ian could understand why Mickey wanted to get him away from it all. If anyone deserved being protected- it was him. 

“Yeah, man. I wish that, too,” Ian nodded. It was the only thing he could think to say- and maybe it would be damaging in the long run, but he couldn’t see that far ahead of himself. 

“Yevgeny, go,” Mickey cut in again, this time sounding more like himself, more authoritative, though he looked like he’d aged since standing there. He looked tired, with dark rings under his eyes and his lip worried between his teeth. With one last hug, Yevgeny flared at Mickey and stomped out of the kitchen. 

“You can’t keep us apart,” Ian sniffled, staying low to the ground and keeping his eyes trained on his shaking hands. “It’s not fair to him.” 

“You’re the one keeping you apart, Ian. You made your cho- y’know what, no. We’re not talking about this again. Only reason I’m here is ‘cause my pops called me in. We’re having a meeting tonight. You’re expected to be there.” Ian gave a nod. 

“Downstairs?” 

“No - uh, Terry’s house. He’s calling it a dinner, but it ain’t like anyone’s gonna enjoy themselves. It’s mandatory, though, so you gotta go.” 

“I’ll be there, Mick,” Ian assured him, half-expecting him to correct his use of the nickname, but it never came. It took Ian a minute to realize why - it was because this time was different. Any other fight or disagreement they had had, Ian had been the one to follow Mickey around like a puppy - it was different now. Ian could have Mickey back in his arms within a second - but it would mean missing out on seeing his younger siblings grow up - it would mean missing out on the big events that he would want to be there for - weddings, births, birth _ days _ \- all of it. He couldn’t do that to them. 

Mickey turned around to walk out of the kitchen, but then he stopped, turning back. 

“And uh…” His eyes flickered to the partition that was thankfully down, separating the kitchen from the rest of the diner. “Think we’re leavin’ soon - couple days probably, maybe a week.” At the information, Ian felt his chest being ripped open; felt his soul torn to pieces, his heart tug and thrash, wanting to get closer to Mickey - where it belonged. Next to his. 

“Okay,” Ian nodded, managing a slight smile, though he doubted it was very convincing. “I really hope you’re gonna find what you need, Mick. I want you to be happy.” He couldn’t stop those words from leaving his mouth - they may not be on great terms, but Mickey needed to know. He  _ had _ to know how much Ian loved him, how important his happiness was to him - whether or not he was a part of it. 

They locked eyes for a beat, and then Mickey walked out of the kitchen. 

“Let’s go downstairs, kid,” Ian heard. 

“I wanna hug Ian again!” 

“Christ, kid,” Mickey could be heard sighing. Ian swallowed down the lump in his throat, before glueing the most sincere smile he was capable of onto his face, making his way out into the diner. 

“Did someone order a hug?” Yevgeny ran over to him, and Ian immediately returned the embrace, pressing a kiss to the soft, blond locks, before running a hand through them. He had been so focused on losing Mickey he hadn’t thought about Yevgeny as much, but maybe he was right. Yevgeny would be safe. That was the most important part. 

✦✦✦

The very minute that Ian stepped into Terry’s house, he was overcome with a feeling of grief. He didn’t let it show externally, of course - but there was something so odd, and so… off about the dinner - and the food hadn’t even been served yet. To any outsider, the only difference between Aleksandr’s dinners, and this dinner was the house it was being hosted in - but Ian could _feel_ it. Despite the greetings and the men draped over the living room furniture; despite the thick cloud of cigar smoke, and the loud laughter - the smell of whiskey and the sound of Ukrainian conversation. Something was missing. 

Aleks was missing. Warmth was missing. The glue was missing, the leader - the _ true  _ leader. Ian was not of the opinion that Aleksandr Milkovich had been the most honorable, or kind human being alive - but in comparison to his brother, Ian missed him. A lot.

Especially tonight, when he didn’t have the safety of Mickey next to him, when he couldn’t look forward to going home and spending the night with him. Instead he was left to sit in the corner with a glass of whiskey, barely joining the conversation, left to look over to Mickey every once in a while, just to find him deliberately avoiding his gaze. 

Ian had thought that the dinner would remain somewhat civil - but of course he had been wrong. As soon as the food was served, and they all gathered around the table - Terry at the head, of course - it started. 

“I’ll tell ya, the way everything’s been goin’ since that old fucker kicked the bucket, I should’a shot his ass years ago,” Terry laughed loudly, a stench of pure alcohol making its way across the table. Ian swallowed down the anger and the pain. He couldn’t react. Couldn’t. 

Of course some of the others laughed, but Ian knew that it was mostly because they were afraid of him - some of them were bad people, of course - but not all. Ian couldn’t blame them for laughing along - they were protecting their lives for all they knew. Ian, however, couldn’t find it within himself to even smile. Nor spare Mickey a look, because he knew that his heart would break. 

“Gonna make so much more business now, without an old fag in charge - man, I hope that miserable son of a bitch is rolling in his grave.” No one around the table seemed surprised. Ian remembered how Mickey had gotten them both out of Aleksandr’s funeral reception - this had to be why. Because this was what Terry did now - bragged about his own accomplishments, and said vile things about his dead brother - his dead brother who helped him to get to the fucking top in the first place. 

It had been months - nearly a year - and Terry was just going on and on about him, still to this day. Ian couldn’t imagine having that much hate within him, even if he believed that the dead person had actually been vile. Didn’t Terry have anything better to do? Anything better to say? A part of Ian wanted to ask, but he didn’t, of course. He knew better. 

Terry continued with his bragging, his ranting, and his foul laughter. Ian tuned him out. He couldn't hear it anymore. Instead, he crawled within his own thoughts, turning them up to overpower what was going on around him. After growing up with so many siblings, he was good at tuning things out. He spent a good amount of time like that. 

Until he suddenly felt a hand slip into his hair, roughly pulling his head back - a familiar tongue forcing its way inside of his mouth. 

A multitude of things happened at once. Chiefly among them, a silence settled over the room. Thick, heavy, sickening silence, and for a moment, Ian thought that maybe the world just fell away- that having Mickey’s mouth working over his own was enough to bleed every one else from existing. That the world was only made for the two of them. 

But that was a ridiculous thought, and Ian soon realized it- especially when the silence was broken, and the next thing Ian knew, he was hearing Terry’s disgusting hateful voice. 

“What the fuck!” He spat, more hate in his voice than Ian had ever heard. Malicious and nasty and laced with pure rage. Everything happened so, so fucking quickly. Ian had only enough time after Mickey left a smacking kiss against his lips to whip his head toward Terry. He looked like a monster. Filled with impossible rage- purple in the face with veins throbbing in his neck and forehead. 

“Guess what, pops?” Ian heard from behind him, though he didn’t have enough time to look at Mickey, to see what he looked like as he watched his father. “I’m a fag, too.” 

Everything moved in slow motion from there. One minute Ian was watching the recognition in Terry’s face. The way it turned impossibly darker. The way he looked as if he were going to kill Mickey himself. The way his mouth opened- Ian thought he was going to command the men to attack them- and he mentally tried to prepare himself for a fight. 

Terry’s head whipped back right after that, and Ian, poor, stupid, naïve Ian, thought that he was standing up, so he stood, too. He pushed his chair back, barely knocking into Mickey’s waist with it, fists clenched and ready to start swinging. 

But then Terry didn’t stand up, and Ian noticed a ringing in his ears. Loud and buzzing and dizzying- and Ian thought maybe he was going to pass out from it. That his equilibrium was running wonky from the adrenaline of fight or flight kicking in. And just when he was ready to throw a punch, just when he was sure Terry was going to stand up and march over, Terentius Milkovich slumped forward, slamming into the table hard, dead from a bullet shot cleanly through his left eye. 

The noise from the room grew back into focus, time sped back up, and after only a moment, Ian’s world righted itself. 

Cries of confusion. Cries of anger. Cries of fear sounded around them slowly as everyone caught on to what had just happened. It didn’t go on for very long before Mickey let out a bark- a loud, fucking vicious, commanding, calm and clear, “Hey!” He punctuated it with a pound of his fist to the table, and all eyes fell to him and all mouths snapped shut. 

“I just wanna let everyone here know- I’m fucking gay. Anyone else got a fucking problem with me and my fag boyfriend? Anyone else?!” 

When Ian finally, finally looked at Mickey, he knew that his own face, and the faces of the men were completely unlike his; Mickey looked anything but panicked. He looked _calm_. Collected. He looked- he looked just as if he were making breakfast on a lazy Sunday morning. Like he was going for a leisure drive late at night. Like he was laying in bed with the blanket pooled at his waist. Like he’d done anything rather than kill his father in front of a room full of witnesses. Still holding the gun. Still licking over his lips like nothing had happened. 

When no one said a fucking word, Mickey nodded his approval. 

“Good. Clean this the fuck up. Anyone got a problem, you know where I live.” 

Ian felt a hand in his own, a slide of fingers that tugged against his skin. It took an effort, a real, honest to god effort to pull his eyes away from Terry’s slumped and bleeding body. But there was really only one thing he wanted to look at anyway. 

“Let’s go home, baby” Mickey said, more than loud enough for everyone to hear, nodding his head toward the door.  Ian didn’t need to be told twice. Still in complete shock, he let Mickey tug him through the house and out onto the porch. 

“Mickey...” Ian stopped walking, and finally found his voice when they were halfway in between the porch steps and Mickey’s car. Though it wasn’t strong - nor weak, nor angry - his voice sounded as if he had seen a spider and was calling Mickey to stomp it. Warning, worried - but not… not nearly as much as it should have been. 

“Yeah?” Mickey answered, their hands slipping apart as he turned around to face him. Ian was looking at the ground, trying desperately to process what the fuck had just happened, so he didn’t know what Mickey looked like - didn’t know the emotion on his face. But the tone of his voice sounded… so, so casual. So calm. So… normal. 

“Um…” Ian started, finally looking up at Mickey. The expressive eyebrows were raised, lips slightly parted - normal. Calm. How? “Uh, d-did you just - “

“Yeah,” Mickey gave him a nod. “Fucker had it coming,” he shrugged, before turning back around, and unlocking the car. “Man, I’m fucking craving a milkshake - you want one?” Mickey asked once they were in the car, and he was turning the key in the ignition. “Chocolate? Vanilla?” 

“A milk - Mickey, you just fucking murdered your father!” Ian finally started to sound like himself again, his shock fading away, being replaced with anger, frustration - and yeah, maybe fear. He knew Mickey, he loved Mickey - but… to do… that? And then be so casual about it? Did he truly know Mickey? 

“Okay…” Mickey dragged the word out as he got them onto the road. “Strawberry?” He joked, clearly referring to the way the berry’s color matched the blood that had leaked out of Terry's head. Ian turned his head to look at him, screwing his face up in complete disgust and confusion; he was about to open his mouth and yell at him, but before he could - Mickey started laughing. 

It started with a chuckle. Then two. Then it picked up until he was laughing hysterically, clutching the wheel until his knuckles turned white. And somehow, that made Ian relax. Mickey wasn’t _cold_. He was _in shock_. Probably far worse off than Ian was. 

“Pull the fuck over,” Ian told him. 

“Can’t pull over, there’s not any place - “

“Pull the fucking car over onto the side of the road and let me drive,” Ian demanded, raising the volume of his voice a lot more than he had meant to. Mickey grumbled a few objections under his breath, but thankfully, he complied, and soon Ian was getting them back onto the road. 

For the rest of the drive, Mickey didn’t say anything - though occasionally, Ian would hear a slight chuckle from his side of the car, and it caused his stomach to turn. He knew how to deal with angry Mickey, he knew how to deal with sad Mickey, he knew how to deal with happy Mickey - he did not know how to deal with hysterical Mickey. 

Finally, they made it to Mickey’s house - Ian parked the car, and they walked in through the front door as if nothing was wrong. 

Since Mickey had stopped laughing at that point, as Ian turned around to close and lock the front door behind them, he was fully expecting either a sobbing Mickey, or a violent Mickey. Instead, the second after the lock clicked, he was being tugged back around, and pinned with his back against the dark wood of the door. Before he could quite realize what was happening, Mickey was on his knees in front of him, frantically undoing his slacks. 

“The fuck are you doing?” 

“Sucking your brain out through your cock, the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” Mickey answered, just as he tugged the pants down, hooking his fingers in the waistband of his boxers.  Ian’s hands surged down to collect his wrists in a tight grip, stopping him. 

“Mikhailo.” Ian said his full name, somehow hoping that it would bring him back to earth. It didn’t. Instead Mickey just looked up at him.

“Let me do it,” he begged, his voice suddenly soft - whiny. Like a child, after being told that they couldn’t have a cookie before dinner. “Let me take care of you, let me suck you off until you come all over my face,” Mickey continued pleading, voice still a stark contrast to the filthy words coming out of his mouth. “Please,” Mickey begged. 

Ian wasn’t silent because he was considering it - no way in hell. He was silent because he was completely blown away, confused, and unsure of what the hell he was supposed to do. In his shock, his hands loosened around Mickey’s wrists, and he seemed to take that as approval, once again starting to tug them down. 

“Stop,” Ian demanded, placing his hands onto his shoulders, pushing him away with such force that he had to throw his hands behind himself to support his weight. All innocence disappeared from Mickey’s face from that moment on, and before Ian knew it, he was on his feet. 

“Fuck you, too,” he pushed Ian, nearly hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Ian reached forwards, trying to get a hold of Mickey’s biceps to get him to still, but he didn’t manage before a blow was delivered to his jaw - not hard enough to throw him off, but that didn’t change the fact that Mickey was talented at throwing punches. 

“Mickey - “ Ian tried. 

“Just fuck me, you fucking coward,” Mickey demanded, going for Ian’s shirt buttons. 

Mickey’s fingers were everywhere. On every button without ever actually getting one open, creeping and crawling over Ian’s chest and belly, fumbling aimlessly as Mickey grunted his frustration. When he wasn’t getting anywhere with unbuttoning, his hand clasped each side of the shirt and started to rip it, sending buttons flying across the room. 

Ian, snapping out of his daze from being hit, shook his head and made to grab for Mickey’s wrists again, digging his nails in so hard that he was sure he’d leave behind smears of blood. 

“Mickey, get it the fuck together! I’m not- fuck- I’m not sleeping with you right now!” 

“What, you don’t love me anymore?” Mickey laughed, loud and boisterous, and shit, Ian was way out of his depth. 

“I do!” Ian yelled, nervous and scared and so beyond weirded out. “I do, but would you look at yourself? You’re in shock. You need to-to eat something and, I don’t know. Go the fuck to sleep or-or lay down!” 

“So you’re not gonna fuck me, but you want me to lay down?” 

“Yes!” 

“Ian, my dad’s dead! Don’t you wanna celebrate?” His hands went back to pawing at Ian, tangling in his disheveled hair and tugging him down. Ian only indulged him for a second; just long enough to smack his lips before he pushed him away again. 

“Yeah, Mick. He’s dead. Because you shot him. And you’re not in your right mind right now.” 

“Not in my right mind right now?” Mickey chuckled, taking a step back and scratching at his eyebrow with his pointer finger. “‘I’m not in my right mind,’ he says,” Mickey spat. “You wanna see ‘not in my right mind?’” 

Before Ian could say anything at all, Mickey was taking a step back, ripping a lamp from the end table next to his couch. It shattered against the wall when he threw it, deafening in the quiet room as it’s shards tinkled against the hardwood floors. 

“Here’s not in my right fucking mind, Fish!” 

The end table itself went next, flipped over just as easily as if it were made of air. Thunking loudly when it landed and shaking the ground with its force. 

“You’re right, I’m fucking crazy!” 

Ian watched with wide eyes and an open, gaping mouth as the coffee table met the same fate. Flipped without a thought as Mickey grunted with the effort. Pictures were torn off the walls. Curtains hanging over the windows ripped from their rods. He was destroying his house. And maybe he was destroying Ian, too. 

“Mickey, stop!” Ian yelled, doing his best to wrap Mickey’s arms at his sides, holding him tightly even as Mickey fought against him, kicking and screaming and thrashing. He continued and continued to fight back against Ian’s hold, as Ian did nothing but tighten his hold on him. He managed to knock a few more things over by making use of his legs, kicking wildly, but eventually, Ian felt his stomach convulse, and it didn’t take him long to realize that the movement was caused by sobs. The kind of sobs that were too deep, too breathless to be heard. 

Mickey continued to fight for a while longer, but eventually, it seemed either Ian’s strength, or the sobs got the upper hand, and he slowly sank. Ian was with him every step of the way, his arms now wrapped around his neck, Ian holding into his own elbows to keep him there, keep him close as they reached the floor. They ended up on their sides, and Ian moved an arm to lay around Mickey’s waist, tugging him close, burying his face in his neck. 

Mickey cried and cried - in a way Ian had never seen him do before. He had seen him cry many times - but it was always silent, slow - not… this. Not loud, breathless sobs, in between screams of emotional pain, and tears that made their way down onto the floor, covering the various shards of glass. It was never nails digging into the skin of Ian’s forearm, as if he was scared that he would disappear; it was never shouts of anger in between sobs, or his legs kicking at Ian’s as if he just needed to get rid of some of the frustration. 

Ian locked his legs around Mickey’s, keeping him still. ‘ _ Go ahead _ ’ Ian said without uttering a single word. He placed a kiss to the back of his neck. ‘ _ Cry. Scream. Yell. Destroy the whole fucking city. I’ll be here. _ ’ 

✦✦✦

They spent hours on that glass covered floor. There was no way of knowing how many hours - but hours. Surely at least three or four. Eventually the breathless, hysterical sobbing subsided, but Mickey was still crying, tears pouring down his cheek, nails digging into Ian’s arm. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Ian finally managed to whisper, by the time Mickey was merely sniffling. Ian had a feeling it had more to do with lack of energy than lack of anything else. 

“Can’t,” Mickey hiccuped. Ian pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, and began to unwrap his arms. “Don’t.” Mickey’s hand caught his arm, stopping him, his voice panicked. 

“I’m not leaving, I’m gonna carry you,” Ian assured him, getting up from the floor, and turning Mickey onto his back, settling in between his legs, pulling them around his own waist. “Come on.” Mickey, seemingly too exhausted to fight it, went with it, pulling himself up from the floor, clinging to Ian like a koala, sniffling quietly, face buried deep in the crook of his shoulder as Ian got them up the stairs and into Mickey’s bedroom. 

Ian undressed him without heat, pulling his sweat-sticky shirt from Mickey’s heaving shoulders, dropping it on the floor unceremoniously. His pants were next, his belt coming undone without much fanfare, his trousers carelessly tossed next to the shirt. Ian made quick work of his own clothes before climbing in under the comforter and aligning his body with Mickey’s- his chest to Mickey’s back. 

“Don’t leave,” Mickey whimpered again, and Ian answered by pulling him closer and kissing at the junction of his shoulder and neck. 

“M’not going anywhere, Mick. I promise.” 

Ian waited until Mickey’s shaky breathing leveled out, and fell into a fitful sleep. 

✦✦✦

He woke up the next morning to a dark grey sky, befitting of his mood. It looked as if it would downpour at any given moment, and he was ready for it. Maybe the rain could wash away the night before and leave Mickey’s world a better place. 

Mickey was still in his arms, hand held snuggly against Ian’s. How he managed to sleep at all was a miracle, and Ian was grateful for it. He pulled their joined hands up and kissed Mickey’s fingers before slipping away from the bed as gently as he could, pulling on a pair of pants before stealthily heading down the steps to clean up the destruction in the living room. 

It turned out that he was too late. The living room was already cleaned up - almost, at least - and a lot emptier than it had been before last night, lacking nearly every single piece of furniture - but it was clean. Save for the last few shards of glass and the shattered end table - both currently being taken care of. 

No words were exchanged. He just looked at Iggy, and then he looked to Svetlana, their eyes somehow saying enough despite the fact that he wasn’t that close with either of them. Ian parted his lips, unsure of what to say - how to thank them, or if he should even say anything. 

In the end, it was Iggy that nodded his head towards the staircase, silently telling Ian to go take care of Mickey. ‘ _ Thank you _ ,’ Ian mouthed. Because he honestly wasn’t sure how he would have been able to handle cleaning up the living room, and taking care of Mickey - as much as he loved Mickey, it would have drained Ian. 

After one last look of gratitude Svetlana’s way, Ian turned around, and carried himself back up the staircase, softly closing the bedroom door. He leaned against it, taking a minute to gaze at Mickey’s sleeping form. He was on his stomach now, head turned away from the room. Ian sighed to himself as he took a few steps closer to the bed - not a sigh of annoyance, more of… not contentedness, but something similar, taking the current situation into account. The belief that perhaps things were going to work out. Eventually. 

His eyes drifted to Mickey’s hands - balled up into tight fists, the tension traveling all the way up his arms, his back - his jaw was locked. 

Ian had to look through Mickey’s bathroom for the better part of five minutes before he managed to find an old bottle of lotion in the back of one of the cabinets. With no intentions beyond making Mickey feel better, he carefully and softly got onto the bed, straddling his upper thighs as he poured some of the lotion into his hands. 

Perhaps a massage was redundant - it wasn’t as if it would erase anything - but Ian was at a loss of what else to do. 

“Fuck you doing?” Were Mickey’s first words of the day, gruff and muffled against his pillow. He didn’t move away from the touch, though, and Ian felt that it was as good of an incentive as any to keep going. Steady pressure of his shoulders, working up to his neck and back down his spine. Ian was good at repetitive tasks, if nothing else, and this, he could do. 

“Making you feel good, asshole,” Ian chuckled, hoping to start the day with a little bit of levity- even if it came tumbling down in a horrific tidal wave. 

“How ‘bout you make my asshole feel good instead, asshole,” Mickey shot back, and even if he couldn’t see him, Ian rolled his eyes. 

“Only you would be trying for that right now,” he laughed, accentuating his words with a slap to Mickey’s ass- he smoothed it over with slick hands, so all in all, it wasn’t too bad. 

“I should get up. I got shit to take care of...” Mickey said then, jostling Ian in his saddled position, but he clamped his thighs together and kept Mickey held down, tutting in disapproval. 

“Not today, Mickey. It’ll all be there tomorrow.” 

“No, you don’t understand, Fish,” he breathed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “I’m- shit, I think I’m on the throne now.” 

Ian hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t given any thought after -holy shit that’s Terry’s brain- if he was honest. But Mickey was his son- as was Iggy, but he hadn’t been in the game long enough. Wasn’t as high ranking as Mickey. And. Shit. 

“That make me First Lady?” Ian teased, though even as he said it, he could feel the bile raising up his throat and threatening to spill out. 

“Guess so,” Mickey grumbled. Ian had been expecting a quip, or an insult. The sighed answer made Ian let out a breath, sliding his hands over Mickey’s back a few more times before he laid down himself, cheek against his shoulder. Lazily, he reached out an index finger to trace the faded letters on Mickey’s knuckles. 

“‘M sorry,” Ian mumbled after a while. He was sorry that Mickey had to be the boss now, he was sorry that he had to deal with the trauma that came with last night, he was sorry that Aleksandr wasn’t here anymore, he was sorry that Mickey was born into this shitty life to begin with. Mickey hummed, surprising Ian by lacing their fingers together and bringing them up to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the freckled skin. 

It was such a sweet, innocent gesture. Which was why it should have surprised Ian when he felt Mickey lifting his lower body, rubbing his ass up against Ian’s crotch. It didn’t, though - Ian knew Mickey by now. So he merely chuckled. 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

“Mhm,” Mickey hummed, playfully biting at a few of Ian’s knuckles as Ian struggled against the urge to roll his hips. Any typical morning, he would have been balls deep by now, but this was not a typical morning - for one, Mickey had murdered his father less than fifteen hours ago, and two? Ian was decently sure that Iggy and Svetlana were still downstairs. 

“Your brother and your ex are sitting down right below us.”

“Mmm, an audience,” Mickey husked, and Ian rolled his eyes again, even as Mickey bit down harder on his fingers. 

“There’s nothing I can say to change your mind about this, is there?” Ian sighed, and was surprised when Mickey flipped over, fast as lightning, to face him. 

“You can tell me no, Ian. I’m just really hoping that you won’t. I’m... okay. I want this. I just... I just got you back. And I... wanna feel real...” his voice dipped low towards the end; a whispered secret shared only with someone that Mickey could trust with it. And honestly, Ian was glad that it was him. That Mickey could look at him and see ‘safe.’ Could see someone that he could share with. Someone he didn’t have to pretend around. 

“Get your ass in the shower,” Ian grinned, leaning forward and kissing Mickey’s pouty lips. “Need something to drown out the sound. You’re a screamer.” 

“A scream- no. If that’s anyone, it’s you. Never shut your fucking mouth.” His words were snippy and indignant, but even so, he shuffled up and out of the bed quickly, before starting the shower and climbing in. 

Ian barely had time to remember the lube before he was following behind. Just as he always was. 

“Shh,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s ear. He was behind him, thrusting in slowly, savoring the first time he’d been with him in a month. The longest fucking month of his life. He slapped his hand against Mickey’s panting mouth, hoping that it, paired with the rushing water, would muffle Mickey’s sounds enough to keep their private moments, well, private. 

“So fucking loud,” he spoke to the side of Mickey’s neck, leaving behind nips and sucks. “Better shut that fucking mouth.” 

Ian’s hand muffled his grunts as Mickey’s knuckles grew white against the wall. He could feel his teeth digging into his palm, his hips rolling backwards to meet him, thirsting for more, silently begging. 

“You fucking like that,” Ian grinned, biting the flesh of his shoulder as he slowly picked up the speed of his thrusts. “Like when I boss you around,” he teased, using his free hand to deliver a smack to his ass. Mickey groaned - a groan Ian recognized as an agreement, too far gone to pretend to be the big bad wolf. “Yeah, you’re not that fucking tough, look at you taking my cock,” Ian delivered another smack, before adding - softer - “Fucking beautiful.” At the compliment, Mickey’s groans seemed to take on more of a moaning quality, and Ian pressed a kiss to his shoulder - a soft kiss - before sliding his free hand down the length of his thigh, gripping right above his knee. “Pick that fucking leg up,” Ian told him, breathlessly, helping him lift it up so that the inside of his knee was against the shower wall, spreading him wider for Ian. 

Mickey let out a muffled cry at the new angle, his forehead falling against the wall. 

“Fuck,” Ian cursed, barely managing another ten thrusts before he was pulling out, tugging at Mickey’s shoulder; he turned around to face Ian, clearly confused, but he didn’t have enough time to complain before Ian was picking him up by his thighs, and pushing back in. 

“Fuck,” Mickey hiccuped, face against Ian’s shoulder as he wrapped his legs around him. “Goddamn, you’re so fucking good.” Ian had a brief inkling that Mickey wasn’t just talking about the things Ian did when his clothes were off, but he didn’t feel the need to make sure. Instead he caught Mickey’s lips in between his own. 

Mickey was a lot like jello after they’d both finished down the drain- wobbly on his feet and pliant- more so than Ian had ever seen. He took his time soaping you Mickey’s hair, digging his nails in and scratching along the scalp- pulling forth a noise that wasn’t unlike a purr; a low rumble bubbling up from Mickey’s belly and amplifying in his throat. 

“Feels good,” he slurred, eyes closed and mouth stuck in a soft, sleepy smile. 

“Always wanna make you feel good,” Ian told him earnestly, kissing at the corner of his mouth. “Tip back.” 

He couldn’t say that he’d actually ever taken care of a grown man before. Sure, he’d helped his brothers and sisters- but that was different. He helped with bills and rides and advice. But that -Mickey literally needing to be coddled- was something else entirely, and Ian couldn’t say that he hated it. He only wished that Mickey would be a little more agreeable under better circumstances.

By the time that they were dressed (in pajama pants, because like hell Mickey was going anywhere today; Ian would chain him to the house and command him to allow himself a day to breathe if he needed to) and made their way into the kitchen, they were alone again. The house looked empty, but there was not a single shard of glass left. 

“Sit down,” Ian wrapped an arm around Mickey’s waist, pressing a kiss to his temple, before nudging him towards the barstools. 

“‘M not a fucking invalid,” Mickey complained, but sat down anyway, as Ian went about finding the flour, sugar, and eggs. “What are you makin’?” At that, Ian turned around and raised his brows. 

“I was gonna make you a tall ass stack of pancakes, or does your highness want something else?” Ian teased, watching as Mickey rolled his eyes. He could see amusement within his features, though - and that made it all worth it. 

“Could get used to that," Mickey smirked, and in turn, Ian rolled his own eyes. 

"Yeah, well don't." 

Ian set about measuring and mixing. Ladling down batter and watching it bubble up. He moved without thinking- there wasn't a reason to. It was his job. Scoop the ice cream. Blend the shake. Press the waffle maker. Plate the fries. 

Take care of Mickey. 

"What?" Ian asked as he turned around with a plate in hand, four pancakes high and dripping with butter and syrup. Mickey was watching his with an unreadable expression- something soft and maybe a little bit dopey. It made Ian smile to see, butterflies flitting themselves into a frenzy- he was back. They were back. And it was good. 

"You do, y'know." 

"Do what?" Ian chuckled confusedly, setting the plate in front of Mickey and moving to grab a fork. 

"Always make me feel good."

✦✦✦

The next day found Mickey seated at the head of a meeting table, with Ian directly to his right, and Iggy to his left. He seemed calm- of course he did. Mickey was nothing if not able to sway a crowd, always playing to his strengths and winning them over. The way he smoked his cigarette down to the butt, the way he didn’t say anything as he stamped it out into the glass ashtray, the way he kept quiet and waited for everyone to quiet down to listen to him. He was pure confidence. 

Ian, however, thought that everyone down to the last man in the row could see him sweating through his cream colored button up. He tugged at his collar, feeling heat rise up his neck and settling on his cheeks, sure that if anyone were to spare him a glance, they’d think he was ill. 

“Lotta change lately, boys,” Mickey finally addressed the room- each member from the family in attendance. “Some bad. Some good,” he shrugged. “Looks like things are gonna keep on changing. If you got something to say, now’s the time to do it.” 

He quieted down and looked around the room. Pairs upon pairs of eyes were glued to Mickey- judging his every word. Looking to him to command them. To lead them and keep them prosperous. 

“He your right hand, then?” I voice asked from the other end of the table, and without looking, Ian knew he meant him. There wasn’t anyone else it could be. 

“Uh huh,” Mickey said shortly. “Has been. Gonna keep on being. You got a problem with that?” 

“Fucker’s as Irish as they come. He doesn’t even understand Ukrainian,” the voice spat back, and Mickey leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the five o’clock shadow he had growing. 

“що правда, Риба ( _ that true, Fish? _ )" Mickey asked, loud enough for the entire room to hear. There wasn’t a sound- not even a paper rustling or someone coughing as they waited for Ian’s answer. He rubbed nervously over his face and cleared his throat, praying to god that Aleks had taught him enough. 

“немає. Я можу це зрозуміти. говорити це занадто мудак, ( _ no, I can understand it. Can speak it too, asshole _ ),” he spoke back, praying that his accent didn’t make him sound too far off. Ian could see Mickey looking at him from the corner of his eye, a proud smirk underneath a perfectly arched eyebrow. 

“Anyone else?” Mickey asked, voice cocky and maybe even more assured than it had been previously. The more seconds that passed without anyone else speaking up, the more confident Mickey seemed to grow, and if Ian was honest, he could feel his own sweat slowly but surely cooling down, as he realized that… perhaps this was it now. Perhaps they had no one to be afraid of anymore. “Good,” Mickey stated. “Do your jobs, mind your own fucking business, and you won’t end up like good ol’ pops. Got it?” 

“так, сеp ( _ Yes, sir _ ).” The words echoed around the table, some of the men more willing to obey Mickey than others, but no one seemed as stupid as to refuse. 

“вийди звідси і продовжи свій день ( _ Get out of here and continue your day _ ).” Mickey gave the order, and the room was slowly emptied out, until the only people left were Ian, Mickey, and Iggy. 

“You’re doing good,” Iggy told Mickey - his back straight, clearly carrying himself as a co-worker, rather than a brother, considering where they found themselves. Though Ian thought perhaps he heard a slightly softer quality to his tone. As if he wasn’t just saying ‘ _ You’re a good boss _ ’ but rather ‘ _ It was about time. _ ’ As if he was… assuring him that he did the right thing. Ian stayed silent, figuring he wasn’t exactly in a position to agree - at least not verbally. But secretly - of course he agreed. 

“You, too,” Mickey nodded. After that, Iggy clasped Mickey’s shoulder, and gave Ian a nod, before exiting the conference room. Ian waited until the door closed behind him, until he took a step forward, letting his hand grab onto Mickey’s bicep in a comforting gesture. 

“Are you?” He asked. “Doing good?” It was one thing to say that Mickey was doing good from an outside perspective - which he was; he was a good boss, anyone could see that. But Ian felt the need to make sure that he was doing good in other ways, too - needed to make sure that he was okay. 

Mickey just hummed - a tired hum, the kind of hum that came after a long day's work, despite the fact that they hadn’t been up for many hours. Though, considering the circumstances, Ian couldn’t blame him. 

“Come on,” Mickey wrapped his fingers around Ian’s wrist, dragging him into the office. Mickey’s office. Ian heard the lock, and then he let himself be dragged over to the desk. 

“Mickey…” Ian found himself uttering in a warning tone. 

“Get your mind outta the fucking gutter, Fish,” Mickey grunted. “You’re not bending me over Aleks’ old desk. Just felt like being alone for a bit.” Ian chuckled quietly, reaching down to grab onto Mickey’s thighs, hoisting him up onto the wooden surface. 

“Who said you had to bend over?” Ian questioned, raising his eyebrows as Mickey’s arms came up to wrap around his neck. “You could lay on your back, you could sit in Terry’s old leather chair, let me suck you off,” Mickey raised his brow at that. “Mickey, I’m joking.” 

“Too late, we’re absolutely defiling all of that old fucker’s shit,” Mickey told him. “Not now, though,” he added, then. 

“You okay?” Ian asked again, now that they were sure no one would walk in on them. Mickey didn’t reply verbally. Instead he sighed, his forehead falling against Ian’s tie. 

“Feels weird,” he mumbled. Ian hummed, going to run his fingers through the black strands before remembering that Mickey was at work, and therefore had styled it carefully; he settled for placing a soft hand on the back of his neck. 

“I fucking bet,” Ian told him. 

“Kinda nice, too,” Mickey added, picking his head back up, looking at Ian. “That make me a horrible person?” 

“No,” Ian assured him, not a moment’s hesitation. “No you could never be a horrible person.” 

✦✦✦

A week went by without Ian ever seeing the inside of the diner kitchen- without him going home with grease stained clothes and sweaty skin. He never thought he minded it, the hard work, taxing on his back muscles, but the longer he was away from it, the happier about it he became. Especially because his days were largely spent next to Mickey. 

Saturday brought an even cheerier mood, with Mickey slowly coming to terms with his actions, and Ian, blissfully not on cooking duty. Instead, he sat at the small seat at the kitchen table and watched Mickey and Yevgeny making omelets for breakfast. 

“I want extra cheese in mine,” Ian reminded, smiling when Mickey scowled back. “Yevy, tell your pops not to skimp on it like last time.” 

“Pops, Ian says-,” 

“I heard what he said,” Mickey snarked, glaring playfully. “Here,” he said, then, handing the cheese over to Yevgeny to grate onto the cooking omelet. Some more mindless, casual conversation drifted in between the three, before suddenly, Yevgeny said something that made Ian’s eyes snap to Mickey’s. 

“Can we go to grandpas later? I wanna swim in the pool.” Ian could see it - in Mickey’s eyes - could see the request. ‘ _ Please take this one for me, I can’t do it _ .’ He was still traumatized from the event, the last thing he needed was to explain to his five year old why they couldn’t go to grandpa's house to swim in the pool. 

“Uh…” Ian stood up from the table, and made his way over to them. He considered ducking the actual problem - considered saying that it was too cold - which was true - but that would only mean that they would have to deal with the problem another day. Sooner or later. Perhaps now was as good of a time as any. “Yev… your grandpa isn’t really around anymore.” 

“Why?” Yevgeny asked, but he didn’t seem too bothered - even at his young age, by now, he had realized that perhaps his grandpa wasn’t the nicest person, or the warmest person. “Did he leave town?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Yeah, yeah, he left town.” It was the smart thing to say - not because they liked lying to him, but because if he went out telling people his grandfather was dead, and there was no record of it - they would all be in trouble. Especially considering the Milkovich reputation. 

“Oh, okay,” Yevgeny nodded, and Ian had a feeling he was more disappointed at the fact that he couldn’t swim in a pool than he was at the fact that he couldn’t see Terry. 

Eventually, the omelets were finished, and they all sat down by the kitchen table. For a few minutes, things were good. Then Ian noticed that Yevgeny was becoming silent, staring down onto his plate.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” Mickey questioned, a hand on his shoulder. 

“Something wrong with breakfast, Yev?” Ian asked. 

“Are you gonna stop being friends again?” Yevgeny asked, still looking down at the half-eaten ham and cheese omelet. Ian and Mickey looked at each other. 

“No,” Mickey assured him, eyes still on Ian’s. “Me and Ian are gonna be friends for a long time.” 

“But what if you have a fight again?” Yevgeny finally looked up, eyes shiny with unshed tears as he looked from ian, to Mickey, and back again. “And Ian if you have a son are you still gonna love me?” At that, a sigh of amusement left Ian’s nose. 

“Of course,” Ian assured him, placing his arm across the table, hand softly wrapping around Yevgeny’s forearm, shaking it comfortingly. Then he looked to Mickey, who was chewing his bottom lip; Ian could see the question in his eye. Ian gave him a soft nod. 

“Yev, uh… remember that picture you found when we cleaned out Aleksandr’s house? Of those two men?” 

“The men kissing like a husband and a wife?” Mickey nodded. 

“Well uh… I told you that sometimes men like men, and sometimes women like women, and uh… see, Ian and I, we’re together.” Mickey brought his thumb to his nose, and Ian found the nervous action so endearing that he had to smile. 

“You like to kiss Ian?” Yevgeny screwed his face up - not in disgust, more so in confusion. “Like you sleep in the same bed?” He asked, the question completely innocent - the image of two adults sharing such a private space together. 

“Yeah,” Mickey assured him.

“And that means that…” Ian picked up. “That means that sometimes we’re gonna fight,” he nodded, Yevgeny looking at him, worried expression on his face. “And sometimes we’re gonna disagree, and use bad words towards each other,” he continued. “But when you’re together… like we are - that’s also a promise that you’re gonna make up, and not gonna run away, or stop being friends.” 

“So... is Ian my dad, too?” Yevgeny asked, looking between the two, chewing on his lip just as his pops always did. It made Ian feel a little gooey around the middle to think about. To look at that little boy with his big blue eyes, looking so earnest and sweet. 

“Not... really,” Mickey hedged, tilting his head back and forth as he mulled it over. It only hurt Ian a little, but he knew it was true and that Mickey’s wasn’t trying to be damaging. It just... was what it was. 

“Well I want him to be.” Defiantly crossing his arms over his chest, Yevgeny stomped his foot and scowled- and that was all Mickey, too. 

“What, I ain’t good enough for you now?” Mickey chuckled, maybe sounding a little nervous, as he rubbed a hand over his face. 

“No.” 

Mickey’s eyes snapped to Ian’s as his mouth fell open, shaking his head in disbelief. Ian laughed at him for his efforts. 

“I want to call you dad,” Yevgeny said firmly and assuredly, nodding once and declaring the case closed as he went back to nibbling at his breakfast. 

“Yevy...” Ian forced out slowly, hand tucking against the back of his neck. “I think that might hurt your dad’s feelings. Your actual dad. And we don’t want to-,”

“Does it hurt your feelings, Pops?” Yevgeny interrupted around a mouthful of cheesy egg. He arched an eyebrow- a perfect mirror of Mickey’s expression and waited patiently for the answer. 

“I don’t- no? It doesn’t?” 

“There you go, dad,” Yevgeny shrugged at Ian. “He doesn’t care.” 

Ian studied him carefully, taking note of all of the changes he’d gone through since Ian had known him. He was taller, of course. Hair a little longer and a little more wild- but it was more than that. His face was less round. His eyes a little less filled with wonder. And even more than that, it was the way he acted. So grown up and so much smarter than his years. So funny and witty and charming. And Ian was lucky. Because he wanted to be his son. 

With the omelets eaten, Mickey sent Yevgeny upstairs to take a shower, and as he started doing the dishes, Ian went up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist, resting his lips against the crook of his neck. 

“He calls me dad,” Ian mumbled, for no other reason other than to just… let it sink in. Mickey hummed, affectionately pushing his cheek against Ian’s temple as he scrubbed a plate. 

“My condolences,” Mickey said, and Ian gasped, letting go of him to land a smack to his ass. 

“That ain’t a punishment, Fish.” Mickey stated, and even though he was facing away from ian, Ian rolled his eyes. 

“We gotta work today?” Ian asked, using his hips to push Mickey to the side, giving him the space to pick up his own plate to scrub. In the week that had gone by since Mickey officially became top dog, neither of them had had nearly as much work to do - he supposed that was a perk - being able to sit at the top and tell people what to do without having to do much yourself. But he also knew that Mickey refused to become the kind of boss that Terry had been, refusing to do  _ anything _ . 

“Nah,” Mickey sighed. “After the kid goes back to Svet’s, I should probably get some new furniture. Having a beer on the floor after a long day ain’t the same.” Ian let out a thoughtful hum - one he thought Mickey wouldn’t pick up on, but it turned out that he knew Ian a lot better than Ian thought. 

“What’cha thinkin’, Fish? Don’t wanna go with me, don’t have to, but uh… was thinkin’ you might wanna get some together,” Mickey mumbled - in that particular way that Ian knew to mean he was trying not to sound like he cared about the answer - but he did care. A lot. So Ian handed the last plate over to him to dry, and he leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. 

“Wanna get furniture together? Kinda hard since we don’t live in the same place,” Ian said, smug smile on his face. Mickey put the last plate away and rolled his eyes, turning to face Ian. 

“You fuckin’ know what I’m askin’, man,” Mickey grunted. 

“Maybe. Kinda wanna hear you, y’know, actually ask it, though,” he smiled smugly, biting at his lip and pulling a very Mickey-esque face. 

“Look, you wanna have both of Yev’s dads in one place or not?” Mickey groused, huffing at Ian’s mock insolence. 

“I’ll think about it,” Ian told him casually, turning back to the sink and scrubbing at the pan that made their breakfast. Mickey blew out a plume of air through his nose, and Ian couldn’t take it. 

“Yes, I want to move in, idiot,” he smiled and pulled Mickey by his waist, bodies flush together before he pressed his lips against Mickey’s. 

A gagging sound from behind them tore them apart, Yevgeny’s grossed out little mug twisted up as he watched them. 

“Ay, don’t look at your dad like that,” Mickey barked, but he wasn’t mad. 

“Or your Pops,” Ian tacked on, laughing when Yevgeny grumbled and stomped away, clearly already regretting his decision.


	24. twenty four

“Now here’s what we’re gonna do,” Ian husked, on a cold January night, feeling the breeze of their open bedroom window brush his bare skin. “You listening?” 

Mickey nodded, dragging his cheek against the cotton beneath it, contorting his face just a tad. Enough to make him look cute, and Ian had to fight to keep his grin from his voice. 

“Verbally, Mikhailo.” 

“You’re not my fucking-,” Mickey yelped as he was cut off by a sharp smack to his ass, the reddening imprint of Ian’s palm left behind. “I’m listening,” he relented. 

“Say it in Ukrainian,” Ian demanded, if for no other reason than just to push. 

“ебать тебе, суку,” Mickey spat, his impatience doing nothing but making it worse for himself. Another smack landed, and Mickey grunted and gritted his teeth with the sting of it. 

“You think I don’t know when I’m being called a bitch?!” Ian all but yelled, though he liked this game. Liked the role reversal - a little bit for himself, but mostly because he knew how much it did for Mickey. How much he liked being able to relax, how much he needed to be under Ian’s control after spending his days controlling everybody else. “Say you’re sorry.”

“ _ What _ ?” 

“I  _ said _ , say you’re fucking sorry!” 

“No!”  Ian clicked his tongue but did his best impression at being nonchalant as he shrugged his shoulders and climbed away from the bed, only taking a single step before Mickey stopped him.  “Fuck you doing now?” He cried, voice sounding raw and scratchy.

“Going downstairs. You don’t wanna play by my rules so…” Ian had exactly zero rules- besides both parties being willing and ready- and Mickey knew that. It didn’t stop him from making a strangled noise of protest and burying his face in the pillow and mumbling something inaudible. 

“What was that?” Ian asked, and gave pause, granting Mickey one last chance. 

“I said I’m sorry. Damn. Now can you please…” Mickey gestured vaguely behind himself. “Fuckin’ give it to me.” 

Ian took it as good enough, dropping the trousers in his hands and climbing back on the mattress right next to Mickey. 

“Okay, Mick. Alright,” Ian soothed, running a hand down Mickey’s spine, feeling him shiver and shake just beneath his fingertips. “Here’s what we’re gonna do- you’re gonna take this gel, and you’re gonna get yourself ready for me, and then I’m gonna make you forget your own name.” He dropped a surprisingly soft kiss to Mickey’s hip, as he handed him the tube of KY.  Mickey stared back at him, mouth dropped open and eyes searching. He didn’t make a move, so Ian raised an eyebrow.  “Preferably sometime today, Mickey,” he said, dropping his angry attitude for a more calm and assertive one. 

Over the past couple years, he had noticed that Mickey needed both - needed Ian to yell at him, call him names, and spit in his face, so that he could do the same back - but he also needed him to interrupt that whole charade every once in a while. Just to remind him that he was still there. He was still Ian. 

Mickey’s fingers fumbled with the cap, shaking as he poured the cool jelly against his fingers, rubbing them together with a wet  _ shlick _ . He had a determined look of concentration, one Ian had only seen when he was behind the wheel of his car, as he guided his hand behind himself to coat his body with fluid. 

' _Eyes on me when you do it_ ,' Ian mouthed, and Mickey looked to him immediately. His mouth fell open and a gasped breath fell out when the first finger breached his opening, his body growing taught like a bow string as he started to move.  “How’s it feel?” Ian questioned, entranced by the view in front of him. His partner looked so fucking beautiful. He always did - but… shit. God, he loved him. 

“Cправді добре ( _ Really good _ ),” Mickey groaned, and while Ian stared at the blissed out look on his face. 

“Love it when you talk like that,” Ian slurred, biting his lip and bringing his hand up to palm at himself. “S’the most... Put another one in.” 

Mickey obeyed immediately, apparently temporarily over his bratty misbehavings, sliding his middle finger in along side of his pointer. His eyes shut tight before seemingly remembering that Ian wanted him to keep them open, and snapped them wide to stare back. 

“God, fucking-,” Mickey panted as his wrist twisted and swiveled, getting himself good, by the looks of it. His teeth gnashed together, sending his breath out in high pitched whistles, nearly completely gone from himself. He stared into Ian’s eyes, and Ian’s tongue felt like sandpaper; he couldn’t stop himself from wrapping a hand around himself, slowly moving up and down, making sure not to get too excited - he needed to last long enough to have Mickey whining, crying - vocally, first of all, but if he was lucky enough, perhaps he could pull a tear from his eye as well. 

“One more,” Ian commanded, keeping his voice level, slightly deeper than typical - commanding. Mickey’s lips parted as he continued to obey Ian’s orders - keeping his eyes on his. A low gurgle appeared from deep in his throat when he sank another finger into himself; he seemed to be moving around, searching for the angle that would bring him the most pleasure. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, Ian could tell from the way they would flutter closed every few seconds. “Stop,” Ian demanded suddenly, giving himself another few tugs as he took a step closer to the bed. “Hands back above your head.”

Mickey hummed, placing his hands by their pillows, curving his back, presenting his perfect ass for Ian to sink into. But not yet. 

“You gonna behave?” Ian questioned, sternly. Over the past year or so - since they had really started getting into this whole thing of Mickey giving up control - they had slowly developed that question to mean ‘ _ do you want me to tie you up? _ ’ Because Mickey wasn’t ‘supposed’ to be able to decide anything - but of course that wasn’t truly the case, and would never be the case. 

“What’cha gonna do if I don’t?” Mickey asked cheekily, and Ian raised his brows, heading for his own nightstand to get the black tie they had designated for this exact purpose. 

“Ain’t gonna find out,” Ian said, as he picked Mickey’s wrists up, forcing him to put them onto his lower back, as he tied them together. 

“Can you get out of them?” He asked as he leaned over Mickey’s back, letting the smattering of chest hair that adorned his pecks trail over Mickey- leaving him to shiver and shake in the way that Ian loved. Mickey’s wrists pulled tight, but the tie didn’t give. He felt a sense of pride at watching it stretch but not untie- it took him a good little while to perfect his technique. A few missteps that left Mickey getting out of them easily and laughing at Ian’s failure. He wasn’t failing anymore. 

Ian sat back on his shins, feet tucked up under his butt, and trailed a finger around Mickey’s spine, and down and down, lower and lower until he was rubbing it back and forth- just where Mickey’s pants would sit- if he had any on. 

“Been brought to my attention that some of the guys think you’ve been a little too tough on ‘em lately, Mikhailo. And y’know what I think?” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey spat, growing restless with Ian’s incessant teasing, squirming and writhing and trying to get Ian’s hand to go even lower. 

“I think that’s just no good,” Ian continued on like Mickey hadn’t said a thing. “I think that maybe you need a taste of your own medicine, huh?”

“Fuck y...” Ian knew it was on the tip of his tongue to curse him out again, to spew his hateful words only to take them back later under the safety blanket of darkness, once they were curled up together and well on their way to dreamland. Ian didn’t give him the chance. Lining himself up, he stopped right before he breached the opening. 

“What was that? Fuck _what?_ ” He teased menacingly, dragging himself up and down and left and right, always just beyond his intended target. 

“Me.”

At that, Ian hummed, getting up onto his knees and continuing to tease Mickey’s opening with the head of his cock - pressing it halfway inside, but then pulling back out, never letting Mickey feel the stretch Ian knew he craved. 

“Nah,” Ian decided. “You do it.” 

“What?” Mickey asked, breathlessly, face flushed - not with embarrassment, but with anticipation, exhaustion from having to wait. “Thought you were gonna give it to me like a man, didn’t know I was going with a little skirt,” Mickey barely had time to finish before Ian grabbed his hair, roughly tugging his head back as far as it would go. 

“You wanna say that again?” Ian warned, the length of his cock resting in between Mickey’s ass cheeks. “Huh?” Mickey didn’t say anything, but a deep whine made its way out of his throat. “You’re fucking lucky to be allowed to fuck yourself on my cock, are we clear? If you don’t appreciate it, it’s all the fucking same to me,” Ian spit the obvious lies he knew would turn Mickey on even more. “Do you appreciate it?” 

“Yes,” Mickey breathed, the back of his head nearly touching his upper back. “Yes, I do.” 

“Good,” Ian barked, letting go of his hair by roughly shoving his head forwards. Then he placed one of his own hands behind his back, so that he wouldn’t accidentally help Mickey along, as he held onto his cock to steady it, while he pressed the head against Mickey’s hole. “Get to work.” 

Mickey sighed, and Ian watched his hands clench and unclench as he put his knees further apart to gain more stability; he pushed backwards. Ian couldn’t help but be in awe of the view - every single time that he watched himself disappear into Mickey, inch by inch. 

Clearly struggling in the position, Mickey worked hard to build up a pace, pushing himself forwards and backwards, Ian not helping him one bit.  Ian bit his lip and closed his eyes, a blissful smile tugging its way out of his teeth. He felt a tightening in his belly starting- the beginning of the end, and that wouldn’t do. There was no way in hell that he’d live it down if he finished first. So, with the guise of punishment, he pulled back and out, taking a moment for himself- to catch his breath and push his release away. 

“Why, Fish?” Mickey asked, scandalized. It took everything in him not to laugh at Mickey’s face, full of perceived betrayal and heartache. 

“ _Fish?_ Fish works for you. Try again.” 

“ _Ian,_ ” Mickey quickly amended, and Ian nodded, though he was wondering if maybe he could get Mickey to call him something else. Mister Gallagher, maybe, or something similar. 

“Get on your back.”  Mickey didn’t waste any time at doing just that, flopping over, less than gracefully, and spreading his legs- presenting himself as ready and eager as he waited for Ian to get back at it. Ian settled in, chest to chest, face just an inch or so above Mickey’s.  “Kiss me,” he demanded, the little pulse of a grin working its way at the corner of his mouth when, even though he huffed, Mickey leaned up- no easy feat with his arms behind his back- and kissed him, simple and sweet. “I love you,” Ian murmured, and then right after Mickey answered in kind, Ian was sitting back on his heels, rocking back in. “Just wish you would actually fucking listen once in a while.”

Mickey’s body convulsed with the force of his thrust, a grunt punching its way out of his throat. Ian wrapped his hands around the back of Mickey’s knees, folding him in half as he continued to rock his hips, slowly picking up his pace until he was pounding into him, the headboard slamming into the wall, slowly making the already existing dents larger. 

“You love-” Mickey managed to get out before he lost his breath on another thrust. “You love,” he tried again. “...when I don’t listen.” 

“That what you think, huh?” Ian asked, putting more pressure on Mickey’s knees, so that he could lean over him, as he slowed his thrusts slightly, focusing on the force of them rather than the speed - making sure that each one was aimed at the particular spot inside of Mickey that he now knew so well. “Think I like when you’re a bossy little shit?” Ian questioned, punctuating every few words with a roll of his hips. 

“Mhm,” Mickey nodded, bottom lip in between his teeth, eyes closed as he leaned his head back. Usually, Ian would tell him to open his eyes, open his mouth - let him hear him, let him see him. But sometimes - like today - Ian just liked to appreciate the blissed out look on his partner’s face - the pure ecstasy, the happiness of Ian fucking his brains out. 

“You’re right,” Ian whispered, laying down on top of him, legs over his shoulders. The position couldn’t be too comfortable for Mickey, especially with his hands behind his back, but he wasn’t complaining. “Wouldn’t fuckin’ change anything,” Ian promised, following his words up with a kiss to Mickey’s jawline, knowing that Mickey was just as in need of him being soft, as him being harsh. It had been a tough line to learn how to walk, but by now he knew it like the back of his hand. “Not yet,” Ian warned, then. He didn’t need Mickey to tell him when he was close - could tell by the sounds he made, the way his face screwed up, the way his chest began to heave. “Turn back over,” he commanded, sliding out of Mickey. 

Mickey was quick to do so, getting up on his knees, chest against the sheets, just like before. 

“No,” Ian said. “Lay down.” 

Mickey grunted, but did as he was told, a small moan escaping his throat when Ian straddled his upper thighs, separating his cheeks. 

“I’m gonna fuck you until you’re begging me to come, but you won’t until I allow it, do we understand each other?” Ian asked, to which Mickey mewled, earning himself a thwack to his ass. “Words, Mikhailo.” 

“Yes.” 

“Good,” Ian said, thrusting in with zero warning; he held onto Mickey’s tied wrists, tugging him back with every time he pounded into him. Ian had to bite his own lip, and close his eyes to keep from coming first - that was the difficult part about this whole thing. Mickey was so fucking hot when he took control, but it somehow turned Ian on even more when he was willing to give it up - to Ian; because he knew that he trusted him, that he loved him. There had been more times than Ian was willing to admit when they had been in the middle, and Ian had come way before Mickey was even close. “Now,” Ian commanded, knowing that Mickey wouldn’t make it much longer - not with his cock in his ass, and not with his own trapped in between his own body, and the bedsheets. 

Mickey’s body convulsed as he came, twitching and spasming as Ian grinned down, swiveling his hips to prolong Mickey’s finish, but also his own. His fingers pushed into the sheets next to Mickey’s head, whitening around the force of his grip. 

“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mickey panted as Ian kept on rolling his hips until he, himself stuttered and found release. 

He let himself collapse on top of Mickey, careful of his bound wrists, panting in his ear as he came back to himself. Only when Mickey started to squirm in discomfort did Ian move to roll next to him, reaching out deft fingers to untie the knots holding Mickey together. 

“C’mere,” he rasped once Mickey was free, pulling him to his chest and kissing at the reddened lines left behind in Mickey’s skin. “Y’okay?” 

“Mhm,” Mickey assured him, burying his face into the crook of Ian’s neck. “Tired.” 

“That may be, but don’t you wanna get a shower or something before you lay down? Otherwise you’re gonna have some scuzzy sheets to clean in the morning,” Ian chuckled quietly against Mickey’s temple. 

“I’ll have someone else do it,” Mickey waved dismissively, readjusting to get even closer, to lay more of his limbs across Ian’s. More skin to skin. More touch. More comfort. More togetherness. 

“Abuse of power. Nice,” Ian teased, but it didn’t matter- not when Mickey was warm and safe and happy in his arms. Not when he was in love. Not when he had Mickey.

They laid like that for a while, recovering; Mickey tightly wrapped up in Ian’s arms, every limb inside of the room seemingly made of nothing but putty and fatigue. Usually Mickey would fall asleep within minutes, and his steady breaths would lull Ian into the land of dreams as well. Tonight, though, ten minutes passed without soft snores escaping Mickey’s nose, and Ian began to wonder if something was bothering him. When another five passed, he couldn’t help but ask. 

“Something on your mind?” He pressed a kiss to the top of his head, giving his entire body an extra squeeze of reassurance. When Mickey sighed, he knew that there was. “Talk to me,” Ian asked, softly. Another sigh left Mickey’s lips, as his fingers found Ian’s, lazily toying with them, his cheek against the freckled chest. 

“Got an offer on the house.” 

“You feelin’ ready to let go?” Ian hummed, his soft tone making it clear that he would be perfectly okay with Mickey saying no. The reality was that they both made a decent amount of money - if Mickey needed to hold onto Aleksandr’s house for a few more years, it was no skin off their back. 

Mickey rolled off of Ian and onto his back; Ian followed, getting up onto his side, resting his temple into his hand as the other one rubbed soothingly over Mickey’s side. He saw Mickey getting nervous - saw him worrying his lip between his teeth, the frown lines in his forehead growing deeper. 

“Hey,” Ian sighed, using his thumb to smooth out his forehead, pressing a soft kiss to the swollen lips. “It’s me. It’s just Fish. Talk to me,” he reminded him.

“Been uh…” Mickey started. “Been thinkin’ maybe I don’t wanna sell.” 

“That’s okay,” Ian assured him. “We can keep it for a few years.” 

“Few years,” Mickey repeated, making a strangled noise that sounded like a crossbreed between a huff and a laugh.  He pulled away from Ian and sat at the edge of the mattress, reaching for his pack of cigarettes and lighting one up, letting the smoke swirl and sway around him in a dizzying haze. Ian frowned as he sat up, too, worming his way to sit next to Mickey- thigh to thigh and arm to arm. 

“If you’re not sure, maybe we could swing by? Walk through it. See if it helps you one way or the other,” Ian suggested, snatching Mickey’s cigarette from his fingers despite his silent protest. 

“What good’s that gonna do, Fish? Nothing there but ol' ghosts, yellowed photographs, and dusty furniture.” 

“That’s not true, Mickey- don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. You grew up there. Had a family there,” he tried, blowing a thick cloud of smoke before passing it back by the filter. “Look, at least go to say goodbye to it, if nothing else. Think you should take Yevy, too. He loves that house.” 

“He hates when you call him that,” Mickey grumbled, but Ian knew that was his way of changing the subject, so he let it drop. 

“Well, that’s too bad. He’s always gonna be my little boy, even if he disagrees.” 

✦✦✦

A week passed before the subject was brought up again. Suddenly, Mickey was telling Ian and Yevgeny to get their shoes on because they were going, and they were going right then and there and it wasn’t open for discussion. And when Yevgeny opened his mouth to protest, Ian shot him a look that had his mouth closing and his feet stomping away to get ready. 

Stepping over the threshold was like stepping into a time capsule for Ian. The house had a little more wear and tear to it, not having been lived in for nearly five years. But largely, it was mostly the same, and while Ian had once found it cold and intimidating, he was then only reminded of Aleks’ kindness and patience. 

He took Mickey’s hand when he heard a heavy sigh beside him, squeezing his fingers tight when Mickey did the same. He gave him a half smile, hoping beyond hope that it was encouraging and that it would give Mickey some modicum of relief. 

“You really gonna sell this place, pops?” Yevgeny asked, seemingly oblivious to Mickey’s inner turmoil, as he took a few steps inside and ran his hand against the wall that would certainly need a fresh coat of paint. 

“Thinkin' 'bout it,” Mickey shrugged, rubbing his free hand across his eyebrow. 

“That’s a bummer, man. I love it. You like it, dad?” He asked curiously as he looked around- and Ian couldn’t help but wonder how he remembered it at all, seeing as he was so small the last time he’d been there. 

“I like it,” Ian answered. “But it’s not my decision to make. We’ll support pops no matter what, right?” He asked, trying his best to convey through his eyes alone that Yevgeny needed to go with the flow and not put any unnecessary pressure on Mickey. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna-,” he jutted our his thumb behind his shoulder before wondering off and leaving them alone. 

“You ready to do this, Milkovich?” 

“No,” Mickey breathed. “But let’s do it anyway.” 

They split up; Mickey didn’t tell Ian that that was what he needed, but he kept wandering off, so Ian left him to it. He understood it, he supposed. He understood the need to be alone with his thoughts, the need to reminisce in peace for a minute. 

Walking through the rooms of the house made Ian feel as if he was stuck in some kind of a time-warp. The dining room he had sat in so many times, terrified of the group of men, whether he had let himself admit it or not. The living room with the dusty leather furniture, and the mantel above the fireplace, still home to a variety of different framed photographs. The kitchen, the bathrooms - everything - Ian remembered walking into this place, feeling as if he was entering the lion’s den. Now he just felt... sad.

In a way, it didn’t feel as if it was that long ago, but the layers of dust, and the leak in the dining room ceiling was there to remind him. 

“Hey,” Ian said, finding his son in one of the guest bedrooms, sitting on the floor with a comic book in his hands. “What you got there?” He walked in, taking a seat next to Yevgeny. 

“Red Raven. I think it’s one of the first issues. I found it right there,” Yevgeny pointed to the shelf, stacked with similar comic books, as well as a few paperback books. “I think uncle Aleks used to show these to me, but I never liked them until now,” he continued, voice slightly distant, as he was clearly focused on the story, eyes on the page. 

“Well, you were young,” Ian assured him. “I’m sure he would be happy to see you reading them now.” Ian punctuated the words by ruffling the soft, blond strands on top of his son’s head. “I’m gonna go see where your pops ran off to, you okay here?” 

Yevgeny made a vague noise of agreement, clearly drowning in the world of superheroes. Ian got up, and went back out into the hallway. He wandered the house - up to the second level, down again, until he finally found Mickey in the kitchen, in front of the open pantry, staring at the inside of the door. 

“Hey,” Ian said softly, placing a hand onto the back of Mickey’s neck, his thumb comfortingly rubbing the skin behind his earlobe. “You doing okay?”

“I forgot about this,” Mickey said. Ian hummed in question; as he turned his attention to the surface of the pantry door, he saw a long row of marks - from about Mickey’s knee to his eye-line. Each one was accompanied by a name, and a year. 

_ Ignatius, 1942 _

_ Mikhailo, 1944 _

_ Mudraya, 1944 _

_ Mikhailo, 1945 _

_ Ignatius, 1946 _

_ Mudraya, 1947 _

“Mudr-ey-a?”

“ _Mudr-ai-a_ ,” Mickey corrected his pronunciation. “She always hated it. Pretty sure she had it legally changed.” 

”I don’t blame her,” Ian couldn’t help but joke, earning himself an elbow to his side - though there wasn’t much force behind the action. “Wow,” Ian said then. “You’ve been shorter than you are now?” 

“Man - “ Mickey sighed in frustration, turning to look at him, eyebrows raised.

Ian gave him his best faux innocent smile, and pressed a kiss against his temple, running his eyes over the growth chart. His smile fell when he thought of Mickey, so young and vulnerable, with Terry on his heels, abusing and neglecting him. And that little growth chart, that house, Aleksandr, all of them being Mickey’s respite. 

“You can’t sell this place, Mick,” he said without much thought. “We don’t have to live here. But you can’t get rid of it.” 

Mickey stayed quiet, chewing on his lip as he eyes traced over the walls, the floor, the windows. His hands twitched at his sides, so Ian took one in his own and ran his thumb over Mickey’s, soft and sure. 

“What’re you thinking?” Ian asked quietly, letting the room do most of the talking for him. 

“I don’t know. You really think we should keep it?” 

“I think if you get rid of it, you’ll regret it. Maybe not soon. But at some point, you will. Just sleep on it, alright? Talk it over with Iggy, maybe.”

Mickey nodded at that, and then they spent another hour or so in the house, before leaving - Yevgeny carrying a stack of comic books. 

✦✦✦

Ian didn’t hear anything about the house for another month or so - and truthfully, he had kind of forgotten about it. It stood there, it existed, they had to pay a few fees for it (not water or electricity since that would be a waste of money with no one living there, but some land-fee bullshit for having the house on land that they didn’t own) and that was that. It had been that way for years - the house just existing, without anyone really acknowledging it that often. 

On a night in mid-February, Ian was sitting up in bed, reading a book (which he had the patience to do now when he didn’t have to spend every waking hour worrying about various obstacles in his life) and he noticed Mickey in his peripheral vision, leaning in the doorway. 

“Hey,” Ian said, turning his head to appreciate the view. “Goddamn, you look good,” he told him, putting the book aside and raising a bent arm above his head, leaning it against the headboard. 

It was true - that Mickey looked good. In fact, Ian thought that he was only becoming more and more attractive as the years passed. He had heard people say that it was human nature to grow bored - to become blind, but Ian couldn’t ever imagine looking at Mickey and not having his breath punched out of his lungs - as cliché as it sounded. He had gained a few pounds since Terry’s demise - not having to stress about him anymore - and Ian loved it - reveled in the thick thighs, and slight tummy. Mostly because he knew they were evidence that Mickey was happy. 

“Don’t gotta say that, man,” Mickey grunted, as he made his way over to the bed, Ian appreciating the view of him dressed in nothing but a wife-beater and a pair of boxers. 

“Yes, I do,” Ian disagreed, pulling Mickey’s thigh to help him in the task of straddling his lap. “C’mere.” Mickey hummed as Ian caught his lips in a kiss, both of them getting lost in the soft makeout session for a moment before Mickey broke it, tapping his fingertips lightly against Ian’s collarbone. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Uh…” Mickey started, refusing to lock eyes. “What would you say if I uh… said I might wanna keep the house?” 

“I already told you, Mick - we can keep the house.” 

“No, I mean… what if I wanted to live there? Kinda want us to live there.” 

“Yeah?” He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised- Mickey had talked about it every now and again- about how he used to play baseball in the backyard and how Aleks always held big holiday dinners in the expansive dining room. About how he, Iggy and Mandy used to stay up too late reading under their coverslip gigging until they got caught- and even then. Ian knew it was coming, and he was more than ready to take that step with him. 

“I dunno. Just- if you want to, maybe,” Mickey shrugged nervously. Ian smiled softly, eyes wandering over Mickey's face, as he settled his hands on his thighs, giving the flesh a reasurring squeeze before his thumbs started to move across the soft skin, back and forth; he knew how much the casual touch calmed Mickey. He had never said so - but Ian knew. 

“Mikhailo, I wanna be wherever you are. And if that just has to be a beautiful home, one that you’ve got a million happy memories in, then gee willikers, I reckon I’ll deal with it.”  Mickey rolled his eyes at that, but granted Ian with a full toothed smile, and really, was there anything better than that? Ian couldn’t imagine so. And even if there were, he wouldn’t want it, anyway. 

“Guess I’ll tell the kid, then.” 

“Better not call him a kid when you do it. You’re likely to come back black and blue,” Ian laughed, thinking of all the ways Yevgeny was beginning to fight off his adolescence. The pre teen years were unkind to everyone- but parents especially. 

“I’ll kick his ass,” Mickey chuckled fondly- no real threat in his words. Ian only smiled back, face feeling soft and dopey looking up at him- still just as in love as he’d ever been. 

“So when we moving, then?” 

“I dunno,” Mickey clicked his tongue and unhinged himself from Ian’s waist, moving to lay on his back and pulling Ian to rest his head on Mickey’s chest. “Should fix it up a little. Maybe a couple months. Maybe a little more.” 

“You say the word and we’ll go. Whenever you’re ready, Mickey,” Ian yawned, curling into the feel of fingers raking through his hair.

He nosed his way into the crook of Mickey’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of cigarettes and maple syrup. Suddenly, he felt Mickey’s arms tighten around him, a nose in his hair. 

“I love you so fucking much, Fish,” he heard Mickey mumble, and he had to say that it surprised him a little bit. Not because he didn’t think Mickey loved him as much as he loved Mickey, nor because he didn’t usually express it - he expressed it all the time. Just not... verbally. Words of affirmation weren’t really Mickey’s thing, and Ian didn’t mind it at all - but he couldn’t help the way his heart soared on the rare occasions. 

“Love of my life,” Ian agreed, a slight teasing tone despite the true words as he attempted to get impossibly closer to him. 

“Changed my mind,” Mickey deadpanned, moving to get out of bed, but Ian tightened his hold, hanging onto him for dear life, until Mickey had to give up on the task, both of them filling the room with bubbly laughter.

✦✦✦

‘ _A little renovation_ ’ turned out to be a lot of renovation. It seemed that every time they opened a new door, or brought someone out to inspect the place, something new was found. Mold, leaks, cracked walls, pests - everything.  Of course they had a lot of help - professionals, but also made men who were happy to spend their days doing something more casual for a change. 

Although Ian was also insisting that they had to put some of their own elbow grease into it - he couldn’t help it. 

They were fixing up their house, their future home. The place where Yevgeny would grow up, and the place where Ian and Mickey would hopefully spend many decades together - although Ian didn’t bring that up because he had a feeling that it wouldn’t lead anywhere good, considering all the stress they were already under. He knew Mickey didn’t love thinking about the future - especially if it looked bright. Ian had a feeling it made him worry that it would be taken away from him. But this wouldn’t, Ian knew that. This house, their family - they had fucking earned it. Both of them. 

“The fuck ain’t we telling Olinyk to do this again?” Mickey complained in early March. Despite the snow that was still covering Chicago, and the chill that came with it, Ian and Mickey were both drenched in sweat - probably because according to science, heat rose upwards, and it turned out that within a house, the attic was the place that it rose to. How about that? 

“I wanna do some of it with you, Mick, it’s gonna be a memory,” Ian reminded him, tearing another old and rotten floorboard up. 

“It’s gonna be a fuckin’ memory, alright,” Mickey grumbled. Ian used his empty glove to slap him across the face. 

✦✦✦

Winter turned to spring, turned to summer, turned to fall. The leaves on the trees changed from a cheery green to a calming rainbow of warm tones; dots of reds and oranges and yellow smattered across the front lawn as Ian carried one end of their heavy couch- Mickey at the other end, loading it up into a rented truck. 

“Y’know,” Mickey panted, setting the couch down in the trailer and stuck his hands to his hips, “...we have guys that can do this for us. Perks of being the boss.” 

“And I told you, sir, that we’re doing this ourselves. It’s all part of the fun,” Ian grinned at him wryly. Some things a man just needs to do himself- and moving his own furniture was one of them. 

“Don’t you have people who can help with this, pops?” Yevgeny whined, stepping up and dropping one of his packed boxes near the back. Mickey raised his eyebrows and pointed at the kid in a ‘ _see?_ ’ type gesture, but Ian waived them both off. 

“And like I told both of you knuckleheads,” Ian rounded them both up, an arm around each of their shoulders and knocking their heads together playfully. “We’re men. We can do this.” 

To add insult to injury, he ruffled both of their hair before he pushed them away and moved to go back inside to bring another load. 

“I like pops better!” Yevgeny called after him, the sound of Mickey wrestling with him following it. He smiled, even if Yev was being a little shit. If he were honest with himself- his whole little family were shit heads, and he loved it.

With the last of their home packed and stored away in the truck, the three of them stood in the empty living room, not talking, but looking. Memories of the past six years stinging at Ian’s eyes. This was where Yevgeny’s fourth birthday party happened- where he fell in love with his family. It was where he and Mickey cooked side by side on Sunday mornings. It was where he and Mickey loved and laughed- and cried, too. It was where they became... them. 

“Give us a minute, Yev,” Mickey said after a long, silent moment. Yevgeny huffed, but did as he was told, stalking out the front door, slamming it, and leaving the two of them alone.  “Had our first kiss in here,” Mickey mumbled from beside him, grin tugging at his lips. 

“You mean when you mauled me like a fucking animal?” Ian teased, remembering the way Mickey’s eyes had glittered with unshed tears. As far as first kisses went, it was good in practice- but Mickey had been hurting, and it still stung a little to think of him in so much pain. 

“Please. You’d been begging for it well before it happened,” Mickey scoffed and bumped his shoulder against Ian’s. 

“You think so?” Ian asked, rounding on his as quickly as he could, pushing Mickey against the very same door that he had pushed him against, all those years ago. 

“I know so, bitch. Now, you gonna kiss me or you gonna keep staring at me, cool cat?”  Ian chuckled, nothing but pure happiness in the sound.

“You’re an idiot.” He kissed him then, trying to pour into it every bit of love he could muster- not that it was any great challenge- sucking and biting at his lips, tugging his hands up over his head and pinning them there. He kissed him and kissed him until they were both left breathless, pushing their foreheads against each other’s and gulping in the other’s air. 

“Wanna go start the next chapter?” Ian asked eventually, being mindful that their son was still outside. 

“Let’s roll.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed the lack of angst, it won't last for long :)


	25. twenty five

Ian was still able to feel the thick haze of sleep wrapped around him, comforting him; through it, he wasn’t completely aware of what was happening, but his hand still went in between his legs to hold onto the locks of hair, urging on the the warmth that was moving up and down his length.

Wait. This was what it felt like to have someone sucking his dick. He couldn’t be doing this, what about Mickey? 

“I have a boyfriend,” Ian distantly heard himself mumble. “He’s gonna beat your ass.” he was in that weird state in between dream and reality, where he couldn’t tell whether he was joking, or if he was truly just tired enough to think that someone other than Mickey was waking him up with a fantastic round of head. He felt a choke around his cock, like someone trying to chuckle around it. 

“Yeah?” The warmth disappeared, the muffled word fanning across the tip of his cock, while a hand replaced the throat that had previously been there. “Boyfriend, huh? Tell me about him, he beat a lot of asses?”

Ian chuckled, still half asleep, but now awake enough to realise what was going on. He kept his eyes closed as he sighed contentedly, spreading his legs and softly massaging Mickey’s scalp as he went back to bobbing his head, a muffled slurping sound settling in the air. 

“Nah,” Ian sighed, earning himself a pinch to his hip. “He prefers to have his own ass beat,” he sighed, tipping his head back into the pillows, bracing himself for the slap to his thigh he knew was coming. He chuckled slightly, the sound soon fading into a moan as Mickey did that thing with his tongue that had to be some kind of black magic. “I’m real fucking gone on him,” Ian moaned, his hand switching in between holding onto Mickey’s hair, and rubbing his scalp comfortingly. 

“Real gone, huh?” Came the reply from beneath the sheets, before a tongue made its way from Ian’s balls up to the head. “He any good in the sack?” 

“The fucking best,” Ian groaned as the tight heat enveloped him again. “And smart, and beautiful; and he’s - fuck,” Ian interuppted himself, tugging on Mickey’s hair as he came down his throat without warning.  When he had finished, the covers were violently thrown off of him, exposing Mickey, sitting back on his heels. 

“Can I have a fucking warning next time?” 

“I’m sorry,” Ian said tiredly, reaching for him like a toddler for a bottle of milk. “Let me make it up to you.” 

“Nah,” Mickey said, crawling up his body to press a kiss to his lips. “Too late, think I hear the kid. You promised him waffles with whipped cream, and I sure as fuck ain’t doin’ it,” Mickey said, standing up before delivering a slap to Ian’s thigh. “Get your ass up, man.” 

It took Ian a minute to catch his breath, but eventually, he managed to put on a pair of pajama pants and wander into the kitchen to join his boys. 

Yevgeny sat at the kitchen island, soggy bowl of cereal in front of him. His head perched lethargically against his fist as he shoveled his cereal in without so much as an acknowledgement of his parents wandering in behind him. Ian stepped up behind him and give the back of his neck a gentle squeeze before turning to start the coffee. 

“Look tired, kiddo,” Ian mentioned, frowning in response to Yevgeny’s own forlorn looking expression. “Thought it was waffle day?” 

“Don’t wanna go to school. Don’t want waffles,” he shrugged, and Ian nodded. He got it- understood the overwhelming desire to stay home and in bed- especially as the snow continued to fall against the overcast sky. He also understood that standing around and making breakfast with his very uncool dad was the last thing a kid his age might want to do. It was just one of those growing pains that he’d have to get used to as Yevgeny grew older. 

“Only a few more days until Christmas break. Think Santa is gonna bring you what you asked for?” 

Yevgeny dropped his spoon and gave Ian his best Milkovich, ‘ _you’re an idiot_ ,’ look, and Ian couldn’t help but laugh. Yevgeny was growing up before his eyes- his little boy not so little anymore. 

“Well, he definitely won’t with that attitude,” Mickey piped up as he unfolded the newspaper and scanned his eyes across the headlines. 

“You two are the kings of nowheresville,” Yevgeny rolled his eyes as he dumped his leftover milk down the sink and rinsed his bowl (a trait that Ian was particularly proud of, as he’d spent so much time nagging him to clean up after himself). “My bus’ll be here soon. I’m heading out away from you squares.” 

“Yeah, love you, too, kid,” Mickey snorted and watched him go over the top of his paper.  The door slammed, and Ian looked to Mickey, taking a few steps over to where he sat.  “What?” Mickey grunted, not looking up from the newspaper. He clearly knew Ian too well - knew that Ian was about to say something he didn’t want to hear. 

“You know, he wants a Les Paul,” Ian said softly, placing a hand onto his shoulder, rubbing it soothingly, even though they both knew he had an ulterior motive. 

“Yeah, but we’re not buying him a Les Paul, Ian.” Ian let out a sound of disagreement, taking the newspaper out of his hands and carefully folded it up, placing it to the side. Then he spun Mickey around on the barstool, until he could place himself in between his legs, looking down at him with a serious expression on his face. “No,” Mickey said, before Ian could say anything. “I ain’t buying our ten year old son a three hundred dollar guitar when he ain’t even that interested in playing the guitar he’s already got.” 

“Mickey,” Ian whined, sliding his hands around his neck. 

“Fish,” Mickey mocked. Ian rolled his eyes. “Get dressed, gotta head in,” Mickey said then, with a smack to Ian’s ass. Ian tried to be upset, but it turned out to be really quite difficult when Mickey grinned at him like that. 

✦✦✦

Since Mickey had taken over, walking into the diner brought Ian a quite different feeling than it had before. And if he was being honest, he had a feeling it didn’t just have to do with the fact that he was going with Mickey. If he were a betting man, he’d bet on the fact that everyone felt it. Mickey was... a good boss. Better than good. He was strict, but fair, and professional, but caring when he needed to be. He was everything Terry hadn’t been.

The diner was largely the same after all of that time. It had the same vinyl covered booths. Same chrome outlined counter tops. Same sightly sticky floors. 

Every time Ian walked in he was catapulted back six years. Back to when he could barely afford a waffle and a cup of coffee. Back when Mickey called him Fish- and it wasn’t a term of endearment. He smiled fondly at the memory; thinking of a tiny little Yev raising ten kinds of hell because he wanted cream on his waffles instead of syrup (that hadn’t changed all that much). 

The biggest difference, especially when Ian wasn’t thinking too much, when he just let his mind drift off to the time before, was that Dorothy wasn’t there anymore. Having passed away nearly three years previous, the warmly morning waitress replacing her now was nice enough, but she didn’t have the same charm as Dorothy, and Ian missed her greatly. 

“Morning, Lou Anne,” he greeted anyway, even as his lip threatened to tug down into a frown when she didn’t wear the same silver beehive or have the same bright red lipstick. 

“Mornin’, doll,” she answered back- nervous smile on her face rather than one of genuine excitation at seeing them. Though she wasn’t as privy to the downstairs information as Dorothy had been, she knew enough. And while they trusted her not to flap her gums, she still acted as if she would need to tiptoe around them. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. “Get you boys some breakfast?” 

“Red, here wants a black coffee. I’ll take one with lots of sugar,” Mickey butted in as if they didn’t have the same thing every morning and Lou Anne wouldn’t know any better. That was a thing about Mickey though- you weren’t “in,” until you were, and until that time, he’d expect almost nothing of you- and give you nothing in return. 

“Thank you,” Ian tacked on, giving Mickey a disapproving look. “Don’t mind him, he was never taught his manners.” Ian had made the joke time and time again, and nearly everyone had heard him say it. Truth was, they were probably sick and tired of it, but the way Mickey would shake his head and scowl at him was worth it every time.

They sat down and they drank their coffee, chatting about various casual things - it was a routine now; one Ian could trust to be there tomorrow, and the day after that. He really loved that. He loved Mickey, of course, and he loved Yevgeny, but he also loved just... his life. In general. He had never really been able to say that before. 

“You need me to do the books today, right?” Ian said, as they split the waffle they had decided they should have for once. Even if Yevgeny had decided against it. “How about I do that and then I drive over and do some of the last minute shopping?” 

Mickey immediately shook his head, chewing a large bite of waffle, syrup and cream as he leaned back in the booth, looking at Ian with a slight amusement dancing in his blue eyes. 

“I ain’t letting you do the Christmas shopping on your own, Fish. I ain’t stupid.” He knocked his ankle against Ian’s, but Ian decided to play dumb. 

“I know you’ve been busy.” Which was true, because Mickey liked to give some of the guys higher up a few days off around the holidays - not that he ever said it out loud, because that would make him lose his fire reputation right quick. “I still need to buy Fiona a present - and Carl.” He had found a cashmere sweater for Debbie, a pair of shoes for Liam, and a really nice, slick and portable typewriter for Lip so that he could keep being smart wherever he went. He still didn’t know what he should get for Fiona - nothing ever seemed enough. And Carl? Well he knew that he wanted a car or a revolver, but like hell. “Or you...” Ian added. 

It had taken him a couple years to convince Mickey that they should be getting each other Christmas presents, but eventually, he had folded. Mostly because the third Christmas that they knew each other, Ian had practically shoved a pair of suspenders in his face, forcing him to take them. Mickey had laughed, and pulled out the same pair for Ian. 

”You didn’t get me a present? I’m so hurt,” Mickey deadpanned. “If I send you to the store by yourself, you’re gonna come home with two Les Pauls, and probably a bunch of other expensive shit that he doesn’t need.”

Well, Mickey wasn’t wrong. He very rarely was when it came to something Ian-adjacent, it came with the territory of not only living with, but being with and working with someone day in and day out. The same way he knew that Mickey was going to ask for another cup of coffee, only finish half of it, and then slide it across the table for Ian to gulp down the rest of the too-sweet poison Mickey always concocted. 

But some things- some things Mickey didn’t know. And more than that, he didn’t need to know them- at least not until Ian was ready- with a wrapped little package with a nice little blue bow to match Mickey’s eyes. And then, and only then, Mickey could know everything that there was to know about Ian Gallagher. 

“I don’t need your permission, Mikhailo,” Ian chided, though there wasn’t any heat in his words, and he could feel his eyes doing that soft thing where they rounded out a little more- that thing they always did when he looked at Mickey. 

“Like hell you don’t,” Mickey tutted, and then, “Hey, Lou, ‘nother cup’a joe when you get the chance!” He called across the room, getting a nod in response. 

“You’ve got whipped cream on your nose, jackass,” Ian laughed and shook his head. He’d go, by himself, and he’d buy the gift that he’d had on his mind for a while (for both Mickey and Yev) and Christmas would be great. 

Ian finished his breakfast, moving to stand and head to the office, when Mickey stopped him. 

“Finish this coffee ‘fore you go.” Yeah, they knew a lot about each other, alright. 

After making a disgusted face as the sweet liquid made its way down his throat, Ian went down into the office and spent the next few hours mulling over the books, making sure that everything looked good.  When he felt finished, he stood up and took his beige wool coat off of the back of the leather chair. 

“Where you goin’?” Mickey asked, not looking up from his own desk. Ian shrugged the coat on, and sent him a look, even though his partner refused to look up. With a sigh, he took the few steps over to his desk, and planted a hand onto the papers he was studying, towering over him in a way that left Mickey no choice but to look up, raised brows. 

Ian didn’t answer - he didn’t need to. He was doing this and he didn’t need Mickey to agree. So instead he pressed a deep, promising kiss to his lips. 

“I love you, Mikhailo,” he promised, lips still brushing his. He loved him so much. That was why he needed to do this. 

“Mhm,” Mickey hummed, the sound carrying a warning tone. A sound of amusement left Ian’s nose before he dropped one last peck; then he made his way out of the office and towards the store.

As anyone could have predicted, Ian’s first stop was a music store. He wound his way through rows and rows of basses, drum sets and pianos, trumpets and trombones, until re reached his destination. Rows and rows of beautiful guitars, sunburst colors dotting the walls. Ian ran his fingers along the fine sanded wood, smiling- not only at the thought of Yevgeny bouncing with joy when he opened it (he’d still never forgotten the tears that Mickey had earned when he gave Yev his first guitar at his fourth birthday), but also thinking of Mickey’s disapproving scowl when he saw the price tag. He’d get over it soon enough- as much as he liked to pretend to be a hard ass- he spoiled Yevgeny just as much, if not more. 

His eyes landed on one- baby blue and bright and beautiful, and his smile only grew. That was the one- and he picked it up gently without a second thought, shelling out bills as if they were nothing- and they weren’t, really, not if they’d make his son happy.

Ian carried the guitar with him as he made a few more stops - he bought Carl and Fiona their presents, and he spent a little bit of extra time window shopping, before finally, he made it to the jewelry store. 

There was a crowd already gathered there - seemingly his idea wasn’t all that original. He spent the better part of thirty minutes, looking around - he saw a few things that he liked, but some of them he thought might be too intricate for Mickey’s taste. 

“Sir?” At the friendly voice, Ian looked up, locking eyes with a petite woman, a professional smile across her bright red lips. “May I help you?” 

“Yeah, uh... my wedding band broke,” he said with a sigh, holding up his left hand to show the naked ring finger. He didn’t like lying but it was the only way to make this go smoothly. He would already have to go to two places in order to buy two wedding bands in men’s size - he wasn’t about to answer the question as to why he wasn’t buying one for his woman. “I was hoping to purchase a new one before I get chewed out,” he said with a chuckle. 

“I understand,” the lady said, and he could tell that she didn’t think the world of him so far, but he couldn’t care less. “What kind was it, sir?”

“Uh, it was one just like this,” he replied, pointing through the glass at a band made of light gold, nearly the same color as the cuff links he had found Mickey all those years ago - the ones he still wore nearly every single day. It was about half an inch wide - simple. Them. 

“Alright, that’s a popular model, you might be able to bring it home today,” she let him know, before taking his hand in order to inspect his fingers. “I’ll be right back.” 

Not too long after that, he left the jewelry store with a ring in his pocket, and he headed straight for the very same jewelry store - across town. With similar excuses, and a couple of extra ones, since he was getting a ring that wouldn’t fit him, he left that store, too, and made his way home. 

“Dad!” Ian heard, as soon as he walked through the front door, dragging an immense amount of shopping bags with him that he had to drop in order to catch Yevgeny as he came running. 

“Woah,” he got down onto the ground but then stood up, swinging him slightly from side to side before putting him back down. “Thought you were too old to come running at me and your pops,” he joked. Though he wasn’t complaining. As much as he loved Yevgeny now - and would love him in a year, and two, and twenty - a part of him would always miss the little boy without a filter, who just oozed sunshine whenever he saw Ian’s face. 

“Pops and I are setting up the Christmas tree,” Yevgeny said, ignoring the jab. 

“Oh, are you?” Ian asked, trying not to be smug.  _ ‘The fuck we need a tree for? There are trees all over the fucking place,’  _ Mickey had said the first few years. Now he was the one to make sure they got the best one.

“Uh huh. Pops says you gotta put the angel on top. Something about your long-ass arms being the only ones able to reach,” Yevgeny beamed, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was being a little shit head- just like the slightly taller shit head that was his father. 

“Watch your mouth. It’s almost Christmas. We don’t cuss on Jesus' birthday,” Ian laughed, and kicked it up even further when Yevgeny gave him his best eye roll. “I’m gonna go up and stash some shit. I’ll be back down in a minute.” 

“You need help?” Yevgeny asked, poorly disguising his interest in seeing just what was in the bags. 

“No, and you stay down here. Don’t go sniffing around, Yevy. I mean it.” He punctuated his point by ruffling Yevgeny’s hair, earning himself a groan and another eye roll. Ian couldn’t say that riling his boys up wasn’t one of his favorite past times- the look on their faces made every bit of back talk he got in return worth it. 

He made quick work of hiding the gifts (he left Yevgeny’s guitar in the trunk of his car- the case was too obvious). Most everything fit easily in their closet- nearly as big as Ian’s entire bedroom growing up, he couldn’t help but think they’d never have enough things to fill it. 

The rings, though, they went in his side table next to the bed. Mickey wouldn’t go rifling through it, that much he knew, and he was counting on keeping it a secret. 

Downstairs the sound of Christmas music played in the living room. Soft, crooning songs about snow and family and chestnuts roasting made the room even cozier, with it’s soft golden glow and sparkling tinsel. Mickey’s profile came into view as he rounded the corner- profile made softer in the ambiance, and Ian found himself smiling widely at the view. 

“Heard you fellas need some help reaching things above three feet,” he teased, and was rewarded by a middle finger and an exaggerated scowl.

Ian gave only a smile in return; perhaps another day of the year he would have shot a middle finger right back at his partner, but not tonight. 

It wasn’t as if this was the first Christmas spent together, or the first time they had decorated the tree together, the three of them - although it was the first holiday in this house. And a part of Ian couldn’t help but feel as if they were finally... home. Not that he hadn’t felt at home at the old house, but this felt... it felt like warmth; it felt like family - it felt like... marriage. It felt like growing older. Together. 

So Ian didn’t flip Mickey off. Instead, he took the angel out of his hand, and he dropped a kiss to his cheek before getting up onto one of the dining chairs, careful my placing the angel at the top of the tree. 

As soon as he got back down, he felt a hand on his lower back, and he responded by wrapping his arm around Mickey’s neck, ruffling Yevgeny’s hair with his other hand. 

After a moment of admiring the decorated tree, Yevgeny ran off to his room, and Mickey sighed. Still looking at the tree, he mumbled - keeping his voice muted. 

“I can’t believe you got that little jackass a three hundred dollar Les Paul.”

“You don’t even know that I did!” Ian turned to look at him; Mickey just raised his eyebrows in response. 

“Did you?”

“...yes.” 

✦✦✦

Later that night, as Ian laid in bed, his arms securely wrapped around Mickey’s body, holding him close, he felt something nagging at him. The house was quiet; peaceful. Midnight was ticking closer and closer. He had the man he loved in his arms, his breathing steady and even. 

Nothing was wrong. Perhaps that was just it. For once - nothing was wrong. 

His thoughts flickered to the rings in the nightstand. What was the point in waiting? Really?

“Got you something, too,” he said, gripping the back of his neck, squeezing it tight and pulling at the hair of his own nape. Ian wasn’t one for nerves- not anymore- not when it came to Mickey. And yet, his stomach swam in a whirlpool and he was helpless from drowning. 

“Oh yeah?” Mickey asked lightly, amused and happy. 

“Yeah. And I’m- I’m gonna give it to you now, okay?” Ian stuttered out, rolling toward his end table with shaker fingers. 

“If it’s your cock, s’not much of a present,” Mickey fucking giggled, like the smug little asshole he was- but Ian was glad for it. It grounded him and reminded him that under it all- it was still just Mick. 

“No, asshole. Close your eyes.” 

Mickey cast him a quizzical look, but soon acquiesced, closing them after an eye roll, and held out his hand expectantly. Ian places the small black velvet box in his hand and blew out a steadying breath, begging his heart not to beat clear through his ribs. 

“Okay, you can open ‘em,” Ian whispered, voice feeling weak and raspy. “I know that-,” 

“Fuck is this?” Mickey interrupted, arching a perfectly sculpted brow as he opened the case and pulled out the ring, looking at Ian through the opening. 

“I know we can’t get married-,” 

“Yeah, no shit.” 

“Would you just shit the fuck up for a minute, Jesus,” Ian sighed. Mickey nodded and begged for Ian’s pardon with a nod of his head. 

“I know we can’t get married, but, I dunno, Mick. You kind of feel like forever to me, y’know? And- and, even if it’s not legal, or y’know, even if no one knows what they’re for... I- we’ll know, y’know? Fuck- how many times can I say y’know? I’m fucking this up-,” 

“Ian,” Mickey croaked, and Ian looked up just in time to watch him shut his eyes tight and close his fist around the ring; fingers turning pressure white as they shook around it. 

Ian’s heart sank. He was sure that Mickey hated it, that he was finding the perfect way to tell Ian that he was an idiot, and his ideas were stupid, and that no one would ever wear his ring. But then, just when he thought he’d pass out from holding his breath, Mickey spoke.

“Calm the fuck down,” he said, and for a minute, Ian was unsure of which one of them the words were meant for. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Ian, and suddenly, Ian wasn’t worried anymore. Because he could see it - the same thing he felt in his stomach, he could see it; Mickey felt it too. “Ask me, bitch,” Mickey mumbled; his tone indescribably soft compared to the words. Ian bit the inside of his bottom lip to keep his smile from growing, to keep himself from placing the cart before the horse. 

“Fuck the law, Mikhailo,” Ian said, reaching for his free hand, taking it in the palm of his own. “Let’s get married, let’s be husbands. Grow old together. What do you say? You wanna?” 

Mickey slipped his hand out of Ian’s, so that he could use it to support his weight as he leaned back, taking a moment to be silent. 

“Fuck the law?”

“Not much use in changing our motto when we’ve gotten this far, is there?” Ian asked, heart slowly starting to come back to a normal pace as he realized that Mickey wasn’t freaking out on him, or storming out. 

“You sure you wanna spend the rest of your life with my ass?” Mickey asked then, and perhaps it was meant to frighten Ian - to remind him that marriage - whether legal or not - was a promise of forever. Not just the next five years, or the next ten. But it didn’t frighten Ian. Not at all. In fact, he was nodding before Mickey had even finished his sentence. 

“If you’re about to let me, damn right I fuckin’ do,” Ian assured him.

Mickey gave him a nod, and as he opened his hand to look down at the ring, Ian thought he could see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“You gonna put it on me, or what?” Ian thought his heart was soaring as he heard the words, Mickey’s eyes meeting his own. 

“Say it,” he could help but tease, raising a brow. Mickey rolled his eyes, though his smile grew rapidly, seemingly out of his control. “Say it,” Ian repeated. 

“Yes,” Mickey said. “Yes, I will marry your giant, gangly ass, Fish.” 

A spurt of laughter left Ian’s lips as he got up onto his knees and closed the distance in between them, their bright smiles making the kiss slightly awkward. They broke apart, and Ian fought his burning waterline as he looked down and took the ring from Mickey, sliding it onto his finger. 

He was fucking taken. Forever. By Ian. 

“You got ‘nother one, or...?”

Ian felt as if his face might split clear it half, the corners of his lips strung tight, tight, tight as he looked between Mickey’s eyes and the light-catching gold on his finger. He nodded hard and fast, delighted at Mickey’s mike mirroring his own as he turned and shuffled through the drawer once more and pulling out his own marching band. 

“Say something nice when you put it on,” Ian laughed as he handed it over, putting his hand out in front of him with his ring finger stretched in Mickey’s direction. 

“Ian,” Mickey said seriously, and Ian swallowed- he hadn’t expected some big speech. He’d expected Mickey to brush him off and punch his arm like he always did, and it made him feel almost bad when he realized that maybe he could have said more. Told

Mickey how much-

“You’re the queerest guy I know. But you’re alright, I guess.” 

There was the Mickey he knew, and he barked out a sharp cackle of laughter. It was perfect. They were perfect. Their love was everything he’d wanted, and if anyone would have told him that his life would have turned out as well as it had, he’d have spit in their face. 

✦✦✦

Christmas inched closer day by day. They passed the time in the diner, most of the time, and while Ian missed a certain... freedom, he supposed, about running things on the outside, he certainly didn’t miss the danger. Content to see Mickey behind his desk with an army of bodies willing and ready to take a bullet for him. There was a comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the only one who wanted him safe, and Ian reveled in it.

Since the Gallaghers would be visiting on Christmas Day, and the agreement that year was for Yevgeny to spend it with Svetlana and her family, Ian and Mickey made sure to make Christmas Eve special for him - just the three of them. Iggy had a present for him, but he had left it with Mickey a few days earlier, as he was driving to Indiana in order to spend the holidays with his girlfriend. 

“There are only three presents?” Yevgeny questioned as they sat down by the Christmas tree, the dinner settling within their stomachs. 

“Yevgeny!” Ian scolded, while Mickey said something more foul. The two of them may be able to handle it, but like hell they would allow their son to say such things around other people. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the boy apologized. Ian heard Mickey hum, as if he was saying ‘Yeah, I sure hope so.’ Then he took a drink of his eggnog, and Ian pushed the first present over to Yevgeny, who ripped it open without a second’s hesitation. 

It was a stack of graphic novels that Ian and Mickey had picked out together - it was a small gift, one that they could have and would have easily bought for him without it being a special occasion, but the boy cheered over them anyway, hugging both of his dads. 

“Thank you!” He told them, looking more and more like the younger version of himself. 

The next thing he opened was a jacket - Ian had known that it wouldn’t exactly kill, but he had needed a new one, and he seemed happy enough with it.

They all knew what was in the third box - Ian had found an old cardboard box in the attic in an attempt to hide the shape of the guitar, but it wasn’t a difficult guess.

Therefore Yevgeny’s face wasn’t exactly filled with shock as he spotted the guitar, but his eyes were surely shining with happiness. 

“Thank you, thank you!” Yevgeny shouted, leaving the instrument within its box so that he could run up to Mickey and hug him, before doing the same to Ian. “I love you, pops, I love you, dad,” he continued as he squeezed Ian’s frame before running back over to the box. 

“We love you, too,” Ian assured him. Mickey echoed the sentiment, though shot Ian a look - not one that told him he would be sleeping on the couch tonight, but certainly one that showed they were not on the best of terms. Perhaps Ian should have cared, but he didn’t - Mickey loved him anyway; Yevgeny deserved the guitar. 

They spent a few more hours together, Mickey and Yevgeny messing around with the Les Paul while Ian watched with a warm smile - the eggnog keeping his stomach warm as well. 

Eventually, it was time for Yevgeny to go to bed as Svetlana would be picking him up early the next morning. Ian or Mickey always followed him into his room to say goodnight, and this time it ended up being Ian; when he came back down, he found Mickey placed in one of the sofa chairs, a mug of eggnog as he stared - seemingly at the Christmas tree, but most likely at nothing. 

Ian was quiet as he went over and took the mug out of Mickey’s hand; he placed it on the coffee table, so that his fiancé didn’t have an excuse to push him away when he took his place in his lap. 

“Gangly motherfucker,” Mickey muttered under his breath, yet Ian felt the way his arms immediately wrapped around him to keep him there. 

“Mhm,” Ian just agreed, placing a kiss to Mickey’s temple before resting his chin on top of his head. He felt the soft touch of Mickey’s lips to the underside of his jaw, as well as his fingers toying with Ian’s - their rings brushing against each other. “Ever thought back in the day... this is where we’d be?” Ian asked with a slight chuckle. 

He had expected Mickey to laugh along, or crack a joke - one with an insult imbedded within it. When he didn’t, Ian squeezed his hand. 

“Mick?”

“‘S stupid.” 

“What’s stupid?” Ian asked, taking his chin off of Mickey’s so he could look into his eyes. Mickey took his hand from Ian’s to scratch the skin above his eyebrow before he gave it back. 

“I kind of - fuck,” Mickey sighed, dropping his head, forehead against Ian’s collarbone. “I always knew.” 

A deep frown, littered with hints of amusement came across Ian’s features as he grabbed Mickey’s chin, pushing him back and forcing him to look at him. 

“Always knew what?” He pushed. “Always knew we were gonna be in love? Always knew we were gonna have a kid? Always knew we were gonna spend the rest of our lives together?” Ian joked. 

“Always knew I wanted to,” Mickey replied without an ounce of sarcasm.

“Mickey,” Ian cooed, soft, so soft, barely a breath of a whisper, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s neck and burying his face at the junction of Mickey’s shoulder. He felt arms tighten around his waist in turn, squeezing so tightly that he was tempted break clear in half, but he didn’t care. There were worse ways to go. “I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t remember what it was like without you anymore.” 

“Hope we never have to find out,” Mickey mumbled against his temple, and Ian had never agreed with anything more in his life. At least until, “maybe we should take this upstairs, yeah?” 

He nodded so quickly he was sure he’d given himself whiplash, touching his lips to Mickey’s once, twice, before ambling you to stand and reaching a hand out to help Mickey up as well. 

“You head up, start getting ready,” he rumbled in Mickey’s ear. “I’m gonna turn all these lights off and grab a drink.” Probably wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever said, but that was part of the beauty of being together for years and years. 

“Be waiting,” Mickey tossed over his shoulder as he stepped up the stairs.

Ian smiled as he watched him go, hips swaying as he ascended, feeling heat pool in his belly and down his thighs. He went for the drink first, guzzling down a glass of water to wash the stale taste of spiked eggnog from his tongue. 

He took one last look at the tree; sparking with tinsel and twinkling lights, grinning to himself at the wholeness of his family and the happiness in his chest. Yevy’s smile. Mickey voice rattling against his ear drums. It was a perfect perfect. It was almost a shame to turn the lights out on a wonderful Christmas, but as it were, Mickey was waiting for him just upstairs, and with a shrug, he bent down to unplug the lights from the wall. Only, he couldn’t get back up. 

It took a moment, a long confusing moment, where his breath was sucked from his lungs and his head hit the tiled floor hard as he was flung against his back and a heavy weight landed on top of him. 

“What the fu-,” he managed to yell before fingers wrapped around his throat. His hands scrabbled to find purchase against the offending fingers as his legs kicked wildly out below. He locked eyes with the man on his chest, again, momentarily confused when he didn’t see Mickey- but rather another man from their outfit, Christof, with a wild look about him. 

Ian heard himself make a few strangled sounds, similar to coughs as his throat tried to find oxygen. Distantly, he was aware of a few more blows being delivered to his face, and his hands frantically tugging as the fingers around his neck, desperately trying and failing to remember anything he knew about self defense. 

He wanted to call for Mickey - wanted to gather all of his strength and call his name, but then he saw a flash before his eyes - the image of bloody, dead Mickey - he couldn’t do that, couldn’t risk that. 

Slowly, his fighting grew pathetic, as he lost more oxygen, and the image of Mickey grew less horrid. Suddenly, Mickey wasn’t bloody anymore. He was smiling, he was going grey, balding - Ian was there, too. He could see himself, holding onto him, beaming down at him. 

Ian had always heard that before a near death experience, your life is supposed to flash before your eyes. Ian didn’t have that happen. He didn’t see the life he had already lived. He was the the future. It was all Mickey. He couldn’t let some asshole take that away from them. 

With one last burst of adrenaline, Ian fought himself free, and threw the guy off of himself - wait, no. He was doing none of that. He was free, but it wasn’t thanks to himself. 

As Ian slowly forced oxygen back into his lungs, he came back to earth, tuning in the sight of Mickey on the living room floor, beating the man within an inch of his life. 

“Think you can just fucking touch him and I’m gonna let you live?!” Ian heard him say in between blows. “You come in here.” The crack of a facial bone. “You attack my fucking husband.” Crack. “You’re gonna fucking die, I’m gonna fucking murder you.” Crack, crack. Punch. 

“Mickey,” Ian said, as Mickey continued to punch the unconscious body. “Mickey!” Ian repeated, as he stared at the innocent, blue eyes. 

“Pops!” Yevgeny yelled, and Mickey froze, a beat of silence filling the room until there was a crash of a tree topper falling to the floor - the sound of an angel deciding that they had had enough.

“Yevgeny,” Ian saw Mickey’s mouth curve around the word, but no sound came out. He looked just as frozen and hollow as Ian felt- his eyes far away and sunken in, the gravity of their situation smacking him back down to earth. Ian stared and stared. At Mickey. His heaving chest; rising and falling with each labored breath. His knuckles; bruised and smattered with blood. His knees; pushed on either side of his targets waist. At Mickey; scared and lost and worried and everything Ian never wanted him to be. 

The spell was broken, but not by Mickey himself. It was broken by a high pitched sob- emotional and guttural, and everything Ian never wanted to hear from his son. 

“Yevy,” he forced himself to say, climbing onto his hands and knees, coughing and sputtering around the acidic air he was gulping down. He crawled as fast as he could, still with his head swimming in the clouds from loss of air and (probably) a concussion. He didn’t think of how he looked. How he was bloody and broken and scary- he could only think about getting to his little boy and wrapping him up tight where he could shield him from every horrible fucking thing that the world had to offer. 

“C’mere,” he gasped out, holding his arms wide and rolling his wrists as if he could pull Yevgeny in with only the force of his mind. 

“Daddy,” Yevgeny wailed, looking and sounding so much smaller than Ian had seen in years. He took tiny little steps into Ian’s arms and wrapped himself gingerly- so delicately that it was almost painful- around Ian’s neck, burying his face into his chest and letting his tears flow freely. 

“Shh, Buddy. It’s okay. I’m okay. Pops is okay. We’re alright. Shh, shh, shh,” Ian soothed, rubbing palm along Yevgeny’s spine. Up and down, over and over. Scoop the ice cream. Soothe the child. 

“Mickey...” Ian murmured once Yevgeny’s crying had died down, leaving behind shaky whimpers. “What do we do? We can’t...” 

“I know, Fish. We...” he sighed, eyes falling to Yevgeny’s reddened and puffy face. “Yev, you wanna go to mom’s for the night?” 

“No!” Yevgeny’s quick reply came, wrapping himself even tighter against Ian’s neck. “I want daddy.” 

Ian held him closer, kissing his ruffled hair. “Hey, I’m alright, man. I already told you. I’ll still be here tomorrow, alright? Me and pops...” his eyes shifted to Mickey, who for all his worth was trying to seem unbothered, even as he did his best to shield his son's view. “We gotta take care of some things... we gotta... call the cops. We have to call the cops so that they can take him to jail, okay? So let me take you to mom’s, and me and pops will come see you tomorrow, okay?”

”I don’t wanna go to mom’s, I wanna stay with you!” Yevgeny argued, his voice once again becoming thick with tears. As he tucked his face into the crook of Ian’s neck, Ian and Mickey looked at each other, both seemingly at a loss. 

“Yevgeny,” Mickey croaked. “You don’t have a choice, buddy.” Ian knew that it was selfish, but he was happy Mickey could be the bad guy right now - he, himself, had barely come back to a normal breathing pattern, he couldn’t imagine forcing his son to do anything while he cried into his neck and said ‘daddy, please.’ “Go up and get dressed, I’ll call your mom.”

It took a little bit more convincing, but finally, Yevgeny stomped upstairs to change out of his pajamas. As soon as he was out of sight, Ian and Mickey were on the exact same page; Ian took the legs, Mickey took the arms, and they quickly and swiftly carried the unconscious body out to the car. Perhaps Ian should be ashamed that the entire ordeal didn’t take them more than three minutes, but such skills came with the life they had chosen, he supposed. 

Ian made a call to Svetlana, who, considering what kind of life she lived herself, thankfully didn’t ask too many questions. Once he hung up, he heard Mickey on the kitchen phone, speaking fast Ukrainian. ‘ _ Iggy, I need you and your men to meet us at the parking lot. (...) No, he’s not dead. (...) That’s what I need you to take care of. (...) I don’t know, he probably saw our rings _ .’ 

Ian sighed, suddenly overcome with the need to distance himself from the phone call, he went upstairs to knock on Yevgeny’s door. When he opened it, the boy was on his bed, dressed, but his nose buried in a comic book. 

“You gonna come down?”

“I don’t wanna go to mom’s.” 

Ian sighed, taking a minute to close his eyes in order to gather strength. 

“You’re ten. You don’t have a choice.” Ian didn’t often manage to be the bad guy, but he needed to be. He couldn’t leave it all to Mickey just because he was better at it, or because Ian found it uncomfortable. 

With a huff of annoyance, Yevgeny walked down the stairs, just as Mickey hung up the phone. The three of them got into the car and headed towards Svetlana’s house.

Considering how late it was, there weren’t many words exchanged as Svetlana came out onto the curb in her silk robe, placing an arm around her son’s shoulders. Mickey mumbled something about coming to see him tomorrow, and she gave him a nod, sharing one with Ian as well. Then they drove off towards the abandoned parking lot that was by now known as the place of murder and body disposal. 

Mickey was the one driving - Ian would have loved to do so, considering his partner’s level of anger, but it probably wasn’t very smart with the whole possible concussion thing. He watched as Mickey’s knuckles turned white around the wheel, before he reached for the hand closest to him, bringing it up to his face in order to press a kiss to the soft skin. 

“You wanna have a wedding?” Mickey asked suddenly, most likely in an attempt to get their minds off of everything for a moment or two. 

“What?” Ian startled himself with a chuckle- a nervous habit borne of feeling too much too fast and not knowing how to properly express himself. 

“A wedding. Let’s have one.” Mickey, with his only nervous tick being to scratch at his brow, didn’t move his hands from the wheel, voice sure and steady as ever as he spoke. 

“You know that’s not even legal... what would be the point?” 

“The point,” Mickey rose his voice before quickly quieting it back down, “the point is I love you. And if these fuckers think they’re gonna scare us away or stop what we got going on... we’re gonna be louder about it. Every last fucking one of them can watch me promise you forever... and if they got a problem, they can eat a bullet instead of a piece of cake.” 

“You’re serious?” 

“I look like I’m joking to you, Gallagher?” Mickey asked, looking away from the road just long enough to pull his eyebrows high on his forehead and narrow his eyes. 

“No. You don’t look like you’re joking...” 

“Who gives a shit if it’s legal. It’ll be legal to us. The rest of ‘em can pound sand.” Ian swallowed down the grin wanting to make its way into his face as he used his thumb to draw smooth circles on the back of his hand. 

“Mickey,” Ian sighed. “I don’t know if it’s the best idea…” As much as he wanted to have a wedding - as much as he wanted to stand at the altar and promise Mickey forever, and hear him promise the same. As much as he wanted to have a ceremony - as much as he wanted all of it… what had happened tonight was proof that it wasn’t safe. The way Ian saw it, eventually Mickey would be murdered, or he would be murdered - and in both of those cases, Mickey would be hurt beyond repair - Ian wouldn’t risk that. 

“Can’t just lay down, Fish,” Mickey muttered, as they neared the parking lot. It was silent in between them for the minute or two it took him to pull in, stopping the car next to the two already waiting. He shut the engine off, and he was silent for a beat; then he turned to Ian. “Look…” Mickey started, squeezing Ian’s hand, eyes on their intertwined as they heard the muffled sound of Iggy’s guys opening their trunk. “We gonna protect each other - ‘s what we’ve been doing, ‘s what we’re gonna keep doing. But like hell I’m gonna skip out on our wedding ‘cause we were scared.” 

Ian looked into his eyes, sighing as his peripheral vision caught his attacker - who was now slightly conscious again - being motioned to get onto his knees in front of their car - to make sure Mickey could see, to make sure it was being done. 

Mickey kept Ian’s hand in his own as he looked their attacker in the face through the windshield - as Iggy’s soldier placed his weapon to the back of his head. The soldier looked to Mickey. Mickey gave a nod. Then a loud gunshot rang, signalling the man’s execution. 

“See?” Mickey said, as Ian squeezed his hand. “We’re gonna be fine.” 

Mickey shared a nod with his brother, and then he started the engine back up, leaving the body to be dealt with by the soldiers.

✦✦✦

They arrived back at the house, just as the dark night was slowly fading into the grey of the early morning. Neither of them said anything as they hung their jackets up, double checked all the doors and windows, and made their way upstairs. 

“Merry Christmas, Mick,” Ian sighed, irony clear in his tone as he sank down on the edge of their bed. A sigh of bitter amusement left Mickey’s nose. 

“Come on, gotta clean your face, man,” Mickey nodded towards the bathroom; Ian obeyed, getting up onto his tired, aching legs, making his way to the toilet until he could sit down onto the lid. Silently, he watched as Mickey got their first aid kit out of their cabinet; he appreciated the way his eyebrows furrowed as he poured the disinfectant onto the cotton ball. 

“‘Member, uh…” Ian started, as he fought the need to wince at the stinging. “‘Member what you said when I first wanted to join?” 

It was something Ian had thought about now and again, but he had never brought it up to Mickey - perhaps a part of him didn’t want to hear his answer. Mickey merely gave him a questioning grunt, as he picked a piece of lint out of the cut above his eyebrow. 

“You said um… you said we need something to keep us human,” Ian said. “Does this uh… does this feel like we’re human to you?” Ian asked, without judgement in his tone - god knew he wasn’t any better than Mickey. Good or bad, they were the same. No question. But watching someone get executed like that, without blinking - whether that person deserved it or not - could they be… even decent people at this point? 

Mickey spent the next minute in silence, as he finished cleaning up Ian’s bruised and swollen face. Then he carefully tucked all of the supplies away, placing the kit back into the cabinet. Ian could tell that he was thinking, so he didn’t interrupt him as he made his way over to the bathtub, and put the stopper in - as he fiddled with the different knobs to make sure that the water would be warm enough to soothe, but that it wouldn’t hurt Ian more than he already was. 

“I think…” Mickey finally sighed, shaking his hand free of the water, as he stopped in front of Ian, carefully peeling his shirt off - not in a sexual way, but simply in a ‘let me take care of you’ way. “I think if we gotta let go of some of our humanity to keep each other safe, so fucking be it.” 

The way Mickey spoke the words were nearly in a sighing manner. The tone Ian used when he wrapped his arm around his waist and tugged him back to bed, begging for ‘ _five more minutes_.’ He was right, though - Ian knew that.  So he let himself be led over to the bathtub, and he settled in between Mickey’s legs, back against his chest as he felt the rough, yet tender fingers make their way through his hair. 

Yeah. If they had to let go of some of their humanity to keep most of it, they would.


	26. twenty six

A part of Ian had thought that Mickey’s want for an actual wedding was in the heat of the moment - heat of the anger. But as that dreadful night of violence slowly faded in the distance, he continued to talk about it.

“Think if we move the couches out, the living room’d prolly be big enough, don’t you think?” Mickey asked on a Tuesday morning. The sun shone in sleepily through the billowing white linen curtains- the early tendrils of spring wind worming in and bringing with it the fresh scent of new flowers and cut grass. 

“Prolly be big enough for what?” Ian narrowed his eyes, his first few sips of coffee not yet working their way into his blood stream. 

“Our wedding? It doesn’t just happen. We need to plan shit.” Mickey crossed his arms as he surveyed their space, eyebrow arched in thought and tongue working over his chewed up lip. His hip cocked out to the side and his head moved back and forth as if he were already mentally preparing the space, and Ian couldn’t help but grin behind his mug before sitting it down on the nearest flat surface and marching up to Mickey’s back to mold himself around it. 

“You’re pretty cute. Anyone ever tell you that?” He asked from where his chin sat perched on Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Cute. Shut up,” Mickey complained, smacking around behind himself blindly. 

“You don’t like cute?” Ian laughed. “Okay, something else then. The cat’s meow. The bee’s-,”

“Oh my god, Fish.” 

“-knees.” 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mickey sighed without a trace of malice in his voice, wiggling his way out of Ian’s hold so that he could turn around and wrap his arms around Ian’s neck. 

“Yeah. But you wanna marry me anyway.” 

“S’only ‘cause you’re good in the sack.” 

✦✦✦

On a Thursday two weeks later, Ian came home to Mickey perched at the kitchen countertop, pouring over a magazine, scribbling notes furiously in a spiral bound notebook. 

“‘Cha doing?” Ian asked, unlooping his suspenders from his shoulders and heading to the fridge for something cold to drink. 

“Looking at wedding shit,” Mickey mumbled distractedly as his own flew over his page. 

“Should I be... I dunno, doing more to help you plan it?” 

Mickey looked up through his lashes, his permanent scowl still etched on his face. 

“No. I want it done right and you,” he said, waving his hand around in Ian’s direction, “will fuck it up. Let the professionals handle it.” 

“Oh, you’re a professional now, are you?” Ian laughed and leaned across the counter to look over Mickey’s work. “Stargazer lilies, huh? What are those?”  Mickey flipped a few pages back, finger rubbing over the glossy lettering before he found what he was looking for, and tapped the spot before turning the magazine to face Ian.

“I like ‘em. Match your eyes,” Ian said dreamily, and Mickey, because he was a perpetual asshole, scoffed and yanked the book back toward himself. 

“Match my eyes, my ass,” he grumbled, and Ian only smiled brighter. 

“They do, jackass.” 

“You’re the jackass, jackass,” Mickey spat without giving it much thought, eyes trained back on his magazine and pen working double time in the margins of his notes. 

“You let me know if there’s anything I can do, alright?”

Mickey merely waved him off, without looking up from the magazines. Ian smiled around the mouth of the beer bottle as he made his way into the living room to sit down. A part of him felt bad, leaving it all to Mickey, but he also knew that his husband - or husband to be, he supposed, but they had been referring to each other as husbands since they had exchanged the rings - was a controlling son of a bitch sometimes. Like now. And when he was that way, it was best to leave him to it. Besides, all Ian wanted was for Mickey to have exactly what he wanted, what he deserved - that was all he had ever wanted. 

It was about two days later, that Ian sat in bed, the bedside table lamp bathing the room in a warm glow, while simultaneously allowing him to read the words within his book. He heard the bathroom door open, and without consciously making the decision, he brought his arm up, letting Mickey climb in underneath it. Without taking his eyes off of the story, Ian pressed a kiss to his temple. 

“How’s your guest list coming?” Mickey asked after a few beats of silence; Ian hummed in question, still not taking his eyes off of the words. Mickey sighed, and suddenly the book was ripped out of Ian’s grasp, and haphazardly thrown by their feet. “Guest list. Wedding. Who you inviting?” Mickey raised his eyebrows, as if Ian was stupid. 

“Oh,” Ian said, the two turning to face each other, his arm sliding off of Mickey’s shoulders just far enough for his fingers to brush through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it - I mean my siblings, I guess,” Ian nodded, as if he was confirming his own words. 

Since Ian had moved out of the Gallagher house, he didn’t have quite as close a relationship with them - but he still spoke to most of them on a weekly basis, and of course sent them any money he didn’t need so that they could buy food and clothes. They didn’t have to worry about rent or electricity anymore, because Ian and Mickey had decided to keep the other house when they had moved, and it had been the perfect opportunity for Ian to convince Fiona to move his siblings out of the dilapidated Gallagher house, and in there.

“What about you?” Ian asked. At that, Mickey turned so that his back was against the headboard again; Ian pulled him closer, and he didn’t fight it.

“All of ‘em,” Mickey said after a beat. 

“All of...” Ian trailed off. Mickey wanted to invite all of them. That didn’t just mean Iggy, Svetlana, and their son - everyone meant _everyone_. Everyone meant men whose faces sneered at the thought of two men being intimate, much less getting married. Everyone meant men who used to be friendly with the man who had attacked Ian, and who most likely shared the same views. _Everyone_ meant ** _everyone._**

“Mick...” Ian sighed, his free hand reaching up to scrape at the baby soft hair at the nape of his neck. “You think that’s a good idea?” 

“I think if anyone’s gotta problem with it, they can watch me suck your dick. Get ‘em desensitized real quick.” 

“Should I just bend you over the altar and deliver my vows to your ass?” Ian scoffed, rolling his eyes at the thought of the body splayed across his own doing something so dangerous. 

“We’ll have to make the kid leave, but, sure,” Mickey snickered into Ian’s chest. “Look, man. They got a problem, they can try some shit. But we’ll deal with it. Just like last time. We ain’t got a shortage of lead, and if they’re hungry they can come get some.” 

Ian let out a breathy laugh as he felt Mickey start to vibrate with anger, little shiver-shakes wracking through his body as he spoke. Mickey was anything but scary to Ian- though he understood the reticence that came from outside parties. Only- it wasn’t funny, he realized after Mickey kept going and going, talking about dismemberment and beheadings and drownings. It wasn’t funny, because he meant every word. He’d do it in a heartbeat. Ian knew that. 

“Really fooled you into loving me, didn’t I?” Ian asked into Mickey’s hair, leaving behind a kiss at his crown. 

“You’re not smart enough to fool me. I’m just too dumb to know better.” 

“Yeah, me too, Mikhailo.”

✦✦✦

The next few weeks passed - most of it spent either working, taking care of Yevgeny, or planning the wedding - although Ian still wasn’t too involved in the last part. He tried - of course he did - he asked about certain things, he gave his opinions, which to his credit - Mickey rarely waved off - but at the same time, Ian could tell that it was stressing him out to have Ian in his ear, so he left him to it. 

It was a rainy day in April when Ian drove their son over to Svetlana’s, as Mickey was busy at the diner. 

“You tuck your comic books into your bag, make sure they don’t get ruined?” Ian asked, as he pulled the car to a stop outside the extravagant house. Yevgeny followed his advice, and then they left the car, jogging over to the porch, where they could stand under the roof as they waited for the door to respond to Ian’s knock. 

Ian was no longer thrown off by Iggy opening Svetlana’s door - Mickey, nor Ian had ever asked for confirmation about what was going on between the two of them, nor did they need any details. In a way, Ian was glad - he knew Iggy to be a decent human being at the very least, and he clearly already loved Yevgeny - Iggy and Svetlana getting together was hardly the worst thing that could have happened. 

“Where’s mom?” Yevgeny asked, earning himself a gentle punch to his shoulder from Ian. 

“You wanna say bye to me and hi to your uncle before you run off?” 

Yevgeny rolled his eyes, but did just that - even giving them both a hug before he ran off to find her, not bothering to wait for Iggy’s reply. 

“Thanks for bringing him,” Iggy said to Ian, who nodded. 

“Yeah - since you’re here…” Ian trailed off, crossing his arms, and looking around, as if Mickey would somehow show up behind him. “I was thinking… you know Mick wants to have this big wedding?” The question was unnecessary - Ian knew that Mickey had roped Iggy’s men into getting some of the shit done - threaten someone to marry them, force someone to get them a cake, etcetera.

“Yeah, I gotta feelin’ we all need to load up on ammo,” Iggy sighed, clearly frustrated with the people wanting to stop it from happening. 

“Yeah - do you think Mickey wants your sister there?” 

“My sister? Mandy?" 

"'Less you got another one I don't know about," Ian tried not to scoff- but Mickey has rubbed off on him in more than one way, and he couldn't help the indignant look that came across his face. 

"I dunno, man," Iggy shrugged, used to having people less than kind to him, Ian supposed (the thought turned his stomach- Iggy didn't deserve it). "Probably. Don't know if she'd want to, though. Lotta shit went down with that, y'know?" 

Ian nodded, but then stopped, and changed to shaking his head instead. 

"Actually, I don't. Mick won't ever talk about it. Something I should know?" 

"Ah," Iggy sighed, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "Probably. But I think Mick should be the one to tell you. Not really my story." 

"Your brother's not exactly Chatty Cathy," Ian sighed too, mirroring Iggy’s position with his arms crossed tightly around his chest. 

“Yeah, well. Knew that ‘fore you agreed to marry his ass. He ain’t exactly a ray of sunshine.” Iggy chuckled fondly as he spoke, softly shaking his head like it was some well kept secret between the two. 

“Yeah, well,” Ian mocked, “he gives good head. Wasn’t really a choice.” 

Iggy made a gagging noise, and Ian lit up with laughter. Over time, he’d grown to think of Iggy as his own brother, and he delighted in playful teasing whenever he could. Iggy punched his shoulder, and while it stung just a little, Ian laughed it off. 

“Get out of here, you fairy. Tell my brother I send my regards.” 

“Alright, Ig. Tell the kid to call me if he needs anything. And make sure that little asshole eats his fucking veggies. He’s rebelling over them at our house. Svet’ll be able to set him straight.” 

“Will do man,” Iggy nodded, and Ian turned to head to his car. “Hey Ian? Tell Mick to tell you about Mandy, aight?”

“Will do,” Ian assured him. He would ask Mickey, alright - whether or not he would get a decent answer was another question. 

✦✦✦

What Ian did that night was manipulative - he knew that. But after so many years of dealing with Mickey’s way of clenching up when it came to details regarding it past, it was a give-in that Ian had come up with some different ways of pulling answers out of him.  They usually included either his dick, or a bottle of alcohol. They were currently out of alcohol, so Ian had Mickey bent over their dresser, both of his hands holding onto the black hair, tugging him backwards to meet his hips. 

Mickey was babbling wildly; hoarse tone hugging profanities, praises, and various versions of Ian’s name - from Ian, to Fish, to Gallagher. 

“Oh f- oh sh- Gall-Ian, I ca- I ca- it’s so fucking- I can’t-“ 

Ian could see Mickey’s body heaving as he tried to get a decent breath in, but it seemed to be an impossible task. He also knew what Mickey was trying to say - he couldn’t stand; his knees were giving in. So he slowed his thrusts and let go of his hair. 

“I got you, Mick. I got you,” he promised, pulling out for long enough to sink to the floor, leaning against the dresser as he pulled Mickey with him to straddle his lap. 

With the new angle, it didn’t take very long for them to reach their highs, and collapse in a heap onto the carpeted floor of their bedroom.  Ian gave them both a minute - let Mickey lay on his chest, let himself run his fingers through the dark, sweaty strands, let himself feel the beat of Mickey’s heart against his own as they came back to their normal breathing patterns. 

Ian knew, though, that he couldn’t let Mickey recover too much, so before he could stop himself, he went for it. 

“You have a sister, right?”

“Yes?” Mickey questioned, his head heavy as he lifted it just enough to cast his droopy gaze at Ian. “You know that already.”

“Right. Yeah. O’course I know that. I just... you never talk about her. She, uh, you guys close?” Ian soothed the sting of the question by trailing his fingertips up and down the smooth expanse of Mickey’s back, feeling the muscles tense and ripple with his touch. 

“Close enough I guess. Fuck you asking stupid questions for?” Mickey rumbled against his chest. 

“It’s not stupid, Mick. I’m about to be- or already am, or kinda will be- fuck, whatever. We’re together, right? I wanna know about you. Your family. You never talk about her. I was just curious.” 

“Look,” Mickey let out a huff of breath and he started to peel himself away from Ian’s sweat-sticky skin. “She... she’s not... you know... in, with us anymore. Didn’t wanna bring that old shit up, man.” 

Ian sat up, chasing Mickey’s warmth unsuccessfully. Mickey walked on his knees to his end table and grabbed a pair of smokes, lighting each before knee walking back and sticking one in Ian’s mouth. He sat next to him, neither of them with a stitch of clothing, and breathed in deeply. 

“Mandy lives in Florida. With my aunt, uh, Aleks’ ex wife.” 

“Oh,” Ian breathed pensively. Of all of the scenarios he’d envisioned, that wasn’t one of them. He thought maybe she was... he didn’t even know. But he hadn’t pictured her with someone who’d gotten out of the life. 

“Left when she was eighteen. Never came back. Don’t want her to.”

“Why not?” Ian asked, a cloud of smoke leaving his lips along with the words. A part of him knew that there was a risk of Mickey pushing him away if he kept asking more intrusive questions, but he couldn’t help but hope that they were beyond that by now. He also knew that if he didn’t get answers now, he never would. 

Mickey sighed, taking another drag of the cigarette. Though Ian recognized the particular sigh as him getting ready to say something that wasn’t particularly easy for him to say - so Ian kept his silence, giving him the time he needed. 

“Why do you think, man?” he shrugged, finally, shaking his head at Ian, as if he were calling him stupid. “Me and Iggy ain’t ever getting out - ain’t that enough?” 

Ian felt a stab in his heart at the words. Sure - Mickey was the boss now. There was no one above him; and to an outsider, perhaps that would seem as if he were free - but Ian knew the truth. He was wedged in tighter than ever before, unable to walk away in any way shape or form - whereas before, sure, he had been stuck - but he had always had the option of running, hiding, and ducking - the family would go on without him. That wasn’t there anymore. And Iggy was a good person - he surely wouldn’t run off and leave Mickey to deal with the consequences. So Mickey was right. He was stuck. Iggy was stuck. Maybe that was enough. 

“You don’t want her to visit? Don’t want her at the wedding?” Ian asked; Mickey shook his head, but he thought he saw the edges of his lips being tugged downwards, as if the reminder that she wouldn’t be there made him sad. Just as Ian had theorized. 

“Told you, man,” Mickey seemed to shake it off as he got up from the floor. “Shouldn’t dig shit up that’s better left buried.” 

“We could call her... see if-,” 

“Fish. I love you, but drop it. Okay?” 

Ian took a piece of the inside of his cheek between his teeth and nodded. If Mickey didn’t want her there, then... he was just going to have to call her himself to see what she wanted. Mickey wasn’t the end all- be all on authority. Mickey was the boss. But so was Ian. At least when it came to their relationship. 

“Alright, Mick. You wanna get a shower before bed? You’re all sticky,” he grinned, trying painfully so to bring some levity to the conversation. But Mickey was gracious- at least as gracious as a Milkovich could be, and only grumbled a little bit as he stood up and marched toward their en-suite. 

“Get your ass in here, Ian! I’m not washing my own back.” 

Ian rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. Mickey sure was something. And Ian couldn’t wait to spend forever with him.

Ian hated lying to Mickey, hated sneaking around his back. Even if it was something as little as giving Yevgeny a cookie before dinner when he knew Mickey didn’t approve. 

But what else was he supposed to do? He had been able to see the sadness in Mickey’s eyes when he had asked him about Mandy, when he had been reminded that she wouldn’t be at their wedding. Of course he could forget about it, but if it had been Ian - if it had been Fiona, or Debbie, who had been forced to part ways with Ian... Ian couldn’t imagine not having them at his wedding. He just couldn’t. Ian knew that Mickey and Iggy had another brother, who was apparently too much like Terry, and thankfully hadn’t shown his face in decades - that was a different thing. Ian understood not getting along with family. But he couldn’t understand getting along with family and not being able to have them at such an important life event. 

Those thoughts, and similar ones, went around and around Ian’s head for about a week before he finally got a chance to have the house - and the phone - to himself.

He twirled the long, curled cord around his finger nervously, and too tightly. He didn’t stop, though. The stinging pain was a nice grounding force as the ringtone sounded in his ear- a low hum-hum that had his stomach nearing the verge of collapse. And just as he was about to hang the receiver back on the cradle (and hide Mickey’s address book back in its nestled little place in his desk drawer), the ringing stop and a voice answered. 

“Hello?” 

The voice wasn’t what Ian was expecting, though, really he didn’t know what he thought he’d hear. The voice was clear and happy, bright and airy and all of the things that he wished Mickey’s was more often. The nerves fueled around his belly in a pulsing clench, and he had to clear his throat so that he could speak. 

“Can I, uh, talk to Mandy?” 

“You got a reason for calling, assface?” 

Ian smiled at that, and his stomach loosened just a fraction. It may have been a woman’s voice coming through the line, but he may as well have been speaking to the woman version of his betrothed. 

“My name is Ian... Gallagher...” he managed, words failing him beyond a basic introduction. 

“Okay, Ian Gallagher. Again. You got a reason for calling?” 

He let out a chuckle, one laced with more worry than mirth, and felt his cheeks heat up with a blush. Why it was so hard to just fucking speak, Ian didn’t know, but what he did know- was that the breath coming through- the low staticky cackle that he was hearing was one of impatience. He knew because he’d heard it every day for years. 

“I’m Mickey’s... um,” he floundered, just as she said, 

“Mickey? Is he okay? Ian Gallagher I swear to god if you called to tell me my brother is dead-,”

“Jesus!” He barked. “No, Mick’s not dead. He’s... getting married.” 

“Oh, shit,” she sigh-laughed, relaxation creeping into her voice. “Don’t tell me he got back with Svetlana’s commie ass.” 

“No, he didn’t. He’s uh... he’s marrying me.” 

“Marrying _you_.”  It wasn’t a question, though Ian thought it probably should have been. And soon the silence that fell over their conversation began making his itch with discomfort.  “You’re a man, aren’t you, Ian Gallagher?” 

“Uh, yeah,” he said, trying not to scoff. And maybe it was a bad idea to call. Had he just outed Mickey? To someone who Mickey very clearly didn’t want involved. And Jesus Christ, was he ever going to learn to let sleeping dogs lie? 

“So Mick finally crawled his ass out of the closet, huh? Good for him.” She sounded genuine. Like she was actually truly happy for him. Like she was astounded that it had happened. 

“Yeah. We’ve- shit, we’ve been together for a while now. Like five years? Pretty open about it, too.” 

“No shit? I’m happy for him. Fucking finally.”

“So you uh... you on good terms with him?” Ian asked - admittedly a stupid question, as confirmed by the scoff reaching his ear from the other side of the line. 

“He’s still not a talker, is he? Sure about this marriage thing?” Ian found himself smiling at the familiar way she dodged the question she clearly didn’t feel like answering. He didn’t feel like pushing it, so instead he nodded to himself. 

“Of course I am, more than anything,” he said - not so much because he needed to convince her, but because he liked saying it. He liked to express how much he loved Mickey, how sure he was about this - it was one of the most truthful things he had ever said, ever felt. 

“Well, that’s good,” Mandy said. “So again, Ian Gallagher - why are you calling me?” 

“Right, uh...” Ian was reminded the actual reason for the call, and once again the cord tightened around his fingers as he took a breath. “Well, like you said, Mickey doesn’t really talk much - I mean he talks to me a lot, more than anyone else, I think, but some things he just won’t -“

“Yeah, alright - you’re rambling, Fish.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry...” _Wait._ Did she just call him _Fish_? “Did you just call me _Fish_?”

“You sound nervous and naive as hell. Fish is a nickname -“

“Yeah, I know what it means,” Ian found himself laughing under his breath. “It’s Mickey’s nickname for me, it just threw me off, sorry.” 

“Mickey thinks you’re a Fish, too? I would have loved to see that play out, bet it was a hoot to see him agonize over wanting to bang someone he was supposed to be beating the crap out of. Shit.”

“Yeah, anyway...” Ian said. “Well he won’t really say much about you other than you got out and he doesn’t want you wrapped up in all of this anymore. But I just... Uh, I have a lot of siblings and if they couldn’t be at my wedding it’d make me pretty bummed out. I guess I just wanted to ask if you wanted to come to the wedding. For Mickey.”

The tip of Ian’s index finger turned white as he pulled the cord tighter, listening to the silence on the other line. After what had to have been a full minute, the voice came back. 

“Mick know you’re calling me?” It was a question - but it was one they both knew that answer to. Ian sighed; he didn’t need to say more. “Look,” she sighed, and suddenly, Ian thought her voice was softer. “Mick and I - hell, all of us, we’re not close. I want the best for ‘em, but... last thing I wanna do is show up at his wedding if he doesn’t want me there. If he did, he would have called me himself.”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Ian said before he could stop himself. A part of him felt bad about assuming that he knew Mickey better than she did - but at the end of the day, of course he did. He had spent nearly every single day by his side for the past six years. Ian doubted that Mickey had been face to face with her once in that time.

“Ian-,”

“No, Mandy, please. Just. He wouldn’t, okay? He’s... I dunno. He talks about you sometimes, you know? He’s got this old box of pictures- from when you guys were kids. He lights up when he sees your pictures. Always says you were good to Yevy when he was little...”

“Yevy, huh?” Her tone was just the same as Mickey’s always was in the beginning. Before Ian was anything to the little toe-headed spitfire kid, and he was just some guy who wanted to get him dad between his sheets. 

“Yeah. Yevy. I’m his dad. He’s... I love him like he’s my own. He- he’s my son.” Ian felt his throat tighten up at the words. He’d thought them a million times since the day that Yevgeny decided to call him dad. And he’d keep thinking them until the day he died. But sometimes- sometimes he felt a little overwhelmed with all the love he had squeezing at his heart. 

“So you’re marrying my brother and you stole my nephew. Sure his mom’s got something to say about that,” she chuckled, and Ian made a mental note to find out if there was some animosity between the two of them. 

“Yevgeny made the call. Svetlana didn’t kick up too much dust over it,” he defended lightly, trying his best not to get too emotional over it. 

“Ian, listen. I’ll think about it, okay? Going back there... it’s a lot. I know my dad’s gone but...” she trailed off, her quiet breathing the only sound for a good, long minute. “I’ll think about it. Call me back in a few days, alright? Maybe get my dickhead brother to give me a ring once in a while. ‘Yevy,’ too.” 

“I’ll do my best. Can’t promise anything. You know Mick.” 

“Yeah,” she laughed again, “I know Mick. Thanks for calling, Ian Gallagher. I’ll talk to you soon.”

✦✦✦

“If you come close to showing this amount of carelessness again, there won’t be much mercy, do we understand each other?” Ian told the young man standing in front of him. A fish - just like every single person within the family had been at first. Just as he had been himself, as one point in time. Well, he was still ‘Fish’ to Mickey, but he was far from _a_ fish. 

This was not a part of the job that he enjoyed - scaring men a decade younger than himself into doing illegal things - and into doing them well. He didn’t like threatening them, didn’t like insinuating that they could be chained and dropped into the ocean in an hour flat - but it was true. Mickey - and to a large part Ian, himself - ran a tight ship; a fair ship, but a tight one. They may put more value on a human life than Terry and Aleksandr had combined, but they were still the bosses of the Uvorvykishki family. Certain things had to be done. 

“Так, Сер,” the man gave him a nod, before visually flinching, startled at Mickey throwing the door to the office open and heading inside, not a look thrown their way. Ian stated silent, waited for the fish to look at him - to offer up his attention to his master. Not alike a dog, just learning how to behave. 

“You have had once chance to prove yourself, you will get one more - and there will not...” Ian paused, after stressing the last word. “...be a third.” 

“Я розумію,” the man said. ‘ _I understand._ ’ 

“I hope so,” Ian said. “You may leave now.” 

With one last, respectful nod, the man turned around and left the office. Ian hadn’t even noticed Mickey moving from his side of the office to Ian’s, but as soon as the door was closed, he felt the familiar arms wrap around his waist, the heat of his body pressed against his back. 

“Didn’t you have wedding shit to do today?” Ian teased. “You were real fast-talkin’ this morning.”

“Shut up and lock the door,” Mickey huffed, unzipping Ian’s slacks and giving him a shove forwards.

“You lock the fucking door, Mikhailo,” Ian commended in a twisted mix of a chuckle and a breathy pant- a sharp blast of air that came through his nose and constricted his chest. 

“‘Scuse me?” Mickey questioned with his signature eyebrow poised high on his forehead. Ian smiled- loving the times when he knew just what Mickey needed to ground him, being him back to himself, growing excited when Mickey put up a bit of a fight. 

“I said,” Ian pushes out, teaching behind Mickey to grab a handful of his backside, “you want the door locked? You go fucking lock it.” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey complained, but arched into Ian’s touch nonetheless. 

“I’m gonna. Only if you’re a good boy, though. You gonna be good, Mick?” 

Mickey didn’t answer, and Ian hadn’t expected him to. He would agree to Ian’s terms when he was rearing to go- when Ian had him hard and hot and waiting. He locked the door anyway, with only a little bit of grumbling, and Ian leaned back against the desk as he watched him stalk off. 

“Maybe you should crawl back to me,” Ian mused, biting down a smile at Mickey’s answering scowl. 

“Maybe you should suck my cock, asshole.” 

“Pretty sure I laid out my terms for that. Doesn’t sound like you’re following them all too well.” At that, Mickey merely scoffed, staying by the door. Ian clicked his tongue. “Tell you what,” he said, pretending to know exactly what he was going to suggest, even though he was still searching his brain for what he thought Mickey might need - did he need Ian to suck him off, quickly, and then they would go on with their day? Or was this one of those times when he needed something… more? 

They did a lot of things in the comfort of their own bedroom that they had a silent agreement not to do outside of it - at least not often. Whenever they did anything in the office, or in the car, it was usually quick and dirty. But Ian could see it now - he could see it in Mickey’s face, in Mickey’s shoulder - the tension he carried, the scowl on his face, even when he was looking at Ian. He was stressed - he was running around, controlling everybody - because he had to, because that was his job. Ian knew that he needed to relax, needed to be allowed to let go. 

“Come here,” Ian said; Mickey immediately seemed to recognize the change in his tone, though it wasn’t a very large one. 

“There, I walked my ass over to your desk, now what?” Mickey asked, his tone immediately bratty. Ian knew that was a good sign - a sign that he had been right, had read him right. Though after so many years, he was rarely worried about being wrong anymore. 

“You know - you could learn a thing or two about following orders,” Ian said, their shoulders bumping as he softly left his hand brush over Mickey’s lower back, through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Think we both know, following orders ain’t really my strong suit,” Mickey scoffed, raising a brow. Ian struggled to suppress a smirk - but he managed to keep his stone face on. 

“Well, you better learn.” Suddenly Ian changed his tone once again - from quiet and assertive to slightly sharper, more aggressive. “Bend the fuck over,” Ian demanded, giving a push to his shoulder. “Grab the side of the desk, we’re gonna make sure everyone knows what a little bitch you really are,” Ian bit. Of course - in reality, no one would hear them. They knew where their men were at all times - more or less - and they were all busy, either upstairs or on the streets. 

“Good fucking luck,” Mickey cursed, yet did exactly as he was told. “I ain’t ever gonna be a fucking - “ The harsh crack Ian delivered to Mickey’s clothed ass immediately reduced the rest of his sentence into a grunt. 

“Ain’t never gonna be a fuck what-was-that, Mick?” Ian grinned, seeing the profile of Mickey’s face with his bottom lip bitten between his teeth and his cheeks staining a deep shade of pink. 

“A bitch.” 

“Really?” Ian cooed, rubbing a soothing hand over the smack mark. “Not even for me?” 

“Specially not for you,” Mickey declares emphatically, and Ian clicked his tongue again and shook his head. 

“S’not the right answer, Mikhailo.” 

Mickey was fast, but Ian was faster. Using his weight, he pushed Mickey against the desk in a decent hold (one Mickey could get out of if he really wanted to- but Ian needn’t worry about that), and made quick work of sliding his suspenders down his arms before reaching around to unbuckle Mickey’s belt and sliding his zipper down. 

“You gonna fucking do something or you just gonna stand there breathing down my neck?” Mickey spat, though his eyes were closed and a smile threatened to tug at his scowl. 

“Patience.” 

Ian slid Mickey’s trousers down just to his knees, pleased with the involuntary whine that Mickey let out when his boxers remained snug around his hips. 

“Take ‘em off,” he ordered, but it came out sounding more like a plea. 

“If you were in charge, you’d just do it for yourself, huh?” When Mickey didn’t answer, Ian delivered another whack; one that sent the table scraping against the floor, a stack of papers tumbling off the edge. “Answer me, Mikhailo,” Ian demanded. 

“Yeah, fuck,” Mickey cursed. “Yeah, I fuckin’ want ‘em off.” Ian hummed at that, sending one more whack his way, the table once again scraping, Mickey gasping at the force of the hit. “The fuck was that for?” Mickey asked, seemingly too out of breath, or too turned on to look away from the wooden surface of the desk; Ian could see the force of his grip turning his knuckles turning white. 

Ian leaned over, until his chest was pressed against Mickey’s back, his chin hovering by his shoulder. 

“For fun,” Ian told him, before standing back up, and hooking his fingers into the waistband of Mickey’s boxers, tugging them down just enough to expose the pale cheeks. “You know, your ass is something to admire - almost as perfect as my husbands,” Ian said thoughtfully, as he slipped his fingers under Mickey’s shirt, trailing his fingers down from the small of his back, until he could scratch his short nails across the pale flesh. 

“Yeah?” Mickey asked, and Ian could tell that he was starting to bend to Ian’s will now - which was, of course, what they both wanted. They knew each other almost too well by now. “Sure it ain’t better?” 

“I’m sure,” Ian stated, not a moment’s hesitation. Then he positioned himself directly behind Mickey, using both of his hands to knead the flesh, struggling not to grin at the slight hiccups he could hear escaping out of Mickey’s throat despite him clearly trying to suffocate them. “You wanna know why I’m sure?” Mickey nodded - head heavy, strands of hair brushing across the surface of the desk as he pressed into Ian’s touch. “Cause no one’s ass is better than my husband’s. Just like there’s no one with a prettier face. Just like there’s no one who’s smarter - you listening?” Ian delivered another thwack, Mickey flinching at the contact, nodding - a lie, surely. He hadn’t been listening. He had been too focused on the way Ian was fully massaging his ass. “Hm. I don’t buy it,” Ian said. “If we’re gonna do it, you gotta stay alert,” Ian said, slowly sinking to his knees. “You gonna do what I say?” 

“Yes,” Mickey nodded immediately, as Ian pulled his boxers down a little bit more, going back to kneading his cheeks, separating them, just enough for Mickey to feel his breath in between, right where he wanted them. 

“Good,” Ian said. “I’m gonna be a little busy down here. And you’re gonna guess what else my husband has that no one else has.” It wasn’t very subtle, but to be fair, Mickey seemed far enough gone that he may not be realizing that Ian was clumsily tricking him into appreciating himself. “Got it?” 

“Yes,” Mickey hiccuped. 

“Good.” Without further warning, Ian pulled Mickey apart, his tongue leaving a thick stripe of saliva behind as he moved from his balls, not stopping until the valley ended at the small of his back. 

“Shit,” Ian heard Mickey curse quietly. 

“Go ahead,” Ian said, pinching him slightly - a reminder that he had to contribute. 

“Oh, fuck, uh,” Mickey sighed, as Ian went back in. “Fuckin’... thighs, I don’t know - think you like his thighs.” 

“Why?” Ian asked, not bothering to lift his head, instead continuing to massage the bruisable flesh, as the tip of his tongue drew circles around Mickey’s opening. 

“‘Cause they’re fuckin’ muscular and shit - strong, or whatever.” Ian hummed at that, keeping his face completely buried as he let go of Mickey’s ass, moving his hands down to his upper thighs, kneading them at first, but then caressing them softly. 

“Another one,” Ian mumbled, feeling Mickey push back against him as his tongue entered, gently swiping across his inner walls. 

“Fuck, I don’t know - eyes? You like his eyes, right?” Mickey asked; he reached back to grab onto Ian’s hair - five minutes ago, Ian would have scolded him for it, but they were past the foreplay section now. Mickey could grab his hair however much he wanted. Ian pinched the side of his thigh, as he continued eating him out, feeling saliva spread out across his chin. “‘Cause uh…” Mickey said, rightfully understanding the pinch as the question that it was - why? “‘Cause they’re blue, bright and shit,” he breathed. Ian hummed, kneading the insides of Mickey’s thighs roughly, pressing himself deeper, as he felt Mickey push his head, tugging at his hair. “Think - fuck - think you like that he fucking protects you, keeps you safe.” 

Ian made a noise of protest, pulling away enough to speak.

“That’s about me. We’re talkin’ about him. Try again,” Ian said, as he went back in. 

“Fuck - he’s strong,” Mickey tried. “Knows how to get his way, you like that shit.” Ian hummed his approval, giving Mickey a few more thrusts of his tongue before pulling away, biting his left cheek teasingly. 

“I was gonna make you come like this, but I’m so fucking hard,” Ian broke character for a second, breathing heavily as he continued massaging Mickey’s inner thighs, gently keeping them spread. “Wanna be inside of you so fucking bad, but we don’t have any lube,” Ian said, pressing a soft kiss to the crease, right where Mickey’s ass faded into his thigh. 

“I’m good, get in me,” Mickey panted, curving his back, chasing Ian, probably not realizing that he was doing so. 

“You sure?” 

“Ain’t exactly gonna be takin’ it dry, man,” he said, and Ian huffed in amusement - the bottom half of his face was completely covered in his own saliva, and it was nothing compared to Mickey’s entrance. “Come on,” Mickey said. “Wanna feel you.” His tone had changed somewhat - become softer. 

Ian got up on weak legs, and freed his own length from its prison; he spit into his hands and slicked himself up as best he could before placing the head of his cock against Mickey’s entrance, his hands on his hips as he gently pressed inside. 

“Fuck,” Mickey immediately cursed, dropping his forehead onto the desk. 

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Mickey panted.

“Jesus, fuck, don’t move,” Ian ordered him, squeezing his eyes shut and counting to ten- anything to take his mind off the tight heat surrounding him and the breathy little pants falling from Mickey’s mouth. 

“Well, one of us is gonna have to, Gallagher,” Mickey half-laughed, the vibrations sending a tingle through Ian’s lower back. 

“Okay, okay. I will, just-,” Ian said, cutting himself off as he slowly pulled back out, only to push himself right back in. He went slowly, gently, knowing they didn’t have their regular supplies. He was overly conscious of keeping Mickey safe, not letting himself fully let go. It was a small price to pay, if you asked Ian. 

“All those things,” Ian moaned, “all those things you said- they’re true, Mikhailo. Every single one of them.” 

He let himself fall forward, his chest to Mickey’s back, and tangled their fingers together tightly. He kissed at his cheek- his neck, as best as he could from the angle, watching the way Mickey bit at his lips and ground back against him. 

“God- I love you, Mickey. Love you so much.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Me too,” Mickey groaned, and Ian took it as a good sign to move a little faster, but not too much, just a good, solid tempo that had Mickey’s head falling between his shoulder blades and his fingers turning a ghostly white against Ian’s. 

“Gonna fuck-ah, fuck you like this for the rest of our lives,” Ian promised, fully meaning every word, hoping that Mickey knew it and believed it- and more than that, he hoped he understood the deeper meaning. That he’d be beside Mickey for always, and he wouldn’t ever rather be anywhere else if Mickey wasn’t by his side. “Gonna make sure you’re happy forever,” Ian continued as he tightened his hold on Mickey’s hand, continuing to drive them both closer to the edge. “Fuck, you deserve everything,” he sighed, ending the sentiment with a sloppy kiss to the back of his neck, closing his eyes as he felt the head building within his stomach. 

It never went away - the need to make sure that Mickey was happy, that he knew how loved he was, how much he deserved to have in this world, but Ian didn’t say it with words all too often, because he knew that it wasn’t really Mickey’s thing. But every once in a while, it would just spill over - like now - and he just couldn’t help it. 

“Fish,” Mickey whined, and Ian’s lips formed a grin against the pale, damp skin. Mickey didn’t have to say more than that - Ian heard it, all of it - within that one word. “Fish,” Mickey grunted again, and Ian reached his free hand around his body, gently wrapping it around his length, helping him along as he continued aiming himself towards that one spot inside of him that had him losing control. 

“I got you,” Ian promised. “I got you,” he said as they raced along, finally reaching the finish line with whispered curses and heady grunts. 

Ian collapsed on top of Mickey, the desk carrying most of their collective weights, the toes of Ian’s foot taking the rest as their breathing finally went back to normal, syncing up. 

After a few minutes, Mickey gently knocked his head backwards, silently telling Ian to get off of him; Ian gently did so, pulling his soft dick out of Mickey with a wince. 

“Fuck,” Ian sighed. Mickey hummed. “Think we got time for a shower?” It would take an hour at most - drive home, shower, and drive back. Ian had phrased it as a question, but neither of them really had much of an option, considering their current state. 

✦✦✦

A few days later, Ian sat perched on the squishy grey sofa, a folded up news paper in one hand, and Mickey's hair in the other- the latter laid with his head rested on Ian's thigh as he idly watched televising. Rod Serling's calming voice ghosted around in the background, and Ian vaguely registered the opening sequence of The Twilight Zone. 

"You watching?" Mickey asked, his voice coming out high and excited, much the same as Yevgeny's used to when he was able to find a cartoon. 

"Sure, Mick," Ian nodded, though his eyes never left the headlines, a letter through Mickey's hair at an attempt to placate him, though, and hoped it would be enough of a consolation prize for Ian's mind being distant. 

"Ay, mumbles. Eyes on the screen. S'a good fucking show."

Ian put the paper down on the arm of the couch and leaned down to give Mickey's forehead a quick kiss, watching the ways his eyes softened and he snuggled in a little deeper as he watched his show. It wasn't that Ian didn't like it- or didn't want to take spending time with Mickey for granted, but truthfully, he had a lot on his mind. 

The biggest and most pressing issue, and the one Ian had pointedly decided to keep from Mickey, we're the grumblings in the lower ranks. Some of the men, apparently, were a little less than comfortable with having the boss marry his "bitch boyfriend," as Ian had heard himself referred to. He's asked Iggy to keep his ear to the ground so that they could be weeded out, but so far, they'd come up with nothing. 

He'd kept quiet, and he would continue to do so. Mickey has enough on his plate. Planning and leading- the stress of the last few months, hell, even years, had shown plainly on his face. And Ian would do anything he could to stop it from happening. 

"Yeah, Mick. I'm watching." 

"Good. Cause this one looks-," Mickey started, and sighed in frustration when the sound of the phone going off jolted him from his thought. "Son of a bitch," Mickey grumbled, pulling himself up and away from Ian's hold.

Mickey stalked off toward the phone, grumpy as every, and Ian grinned to himself as he appreciated the view. Even when Mickey was rigid and irritated, Ian couldn’t think of anything he’d rather look at than Mickey. Ever. Forever. 

“You better watch that show and tell me what happens, Fish!” He yelled, and followed it up with a simple, “yeah?” into the receiver. 

Ian watched, still as his face morphed- changed into some emotion that Ian couldn’t register. One he’d never seen on Mickey, and he felt himself twist up inside with worry. But he didn’t need to worry for long. 

“Mandy?” Mickey spoke once more, voice coming out a little off kilter. Ian snapped his face back towards the television, way too quickly for it to appear normal, but thankfully, Mickey was staring at the floor. Ian did his best to focus on the television, because he knew that if Mickey came back, and Ian didn’t know what had happened on screen, he would know that he had been listening in on the conversation, and that was something they just didn’t do. They let the other person be on the phone, and then they asked about it - because neither of them ever had a reason to lie. Only. Ian had been lying. For a while now. Mickey still didn’t have a clue that Ian had been in contact with Mandy - on a couple occasions - and although he trusted Mandy not to tell him - as much as he could trust someone he had never met - he still hated the thought of Mickey finding out. He could only imagine the explosion. 

As the couple on the screen spoke to the genie, Ian tried to understand what was happening, while simultaneously eavesdropping on Mickey’s conversation - he didn’t have a choice, he couldn’t stop himself.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey said, which wasn’t very telling. Though, after about ten minutes, he went, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea - I was feelin’ a bit clutched when you left, didn’t get it - but I do. I don’t want you to come back here, stir shit up.” Then he was quiet again. “What - bitch, no, not for my dumbass - for you.” 

Ian struggled to keep his face neutral as he listened in. He could hear it in Mickey’s voice - the love. He was using the same tone he used with Iggy, and Svetlana, and even the same tone he used when he’s upset with Yevgeny. He was using his ‘ _ I love you but that’s not a very hip thing to say, so I’m gonna curse at you, but I still love you very much _ ’ tone. 

“Of course I do,” Mickey sighed. “Yeah.” 

When Mickey’s voice softened, Ian was able to tune him out, going back to the screen for a few minutes, until Mickey hung up, and came back to the couch. He didn’t say anything, and Ian got the feeling that he needed some time to process the emotions. 

“What happened?” Mickey asked instead, as he laid back down with his head in Ian’s lap. 

“He wished that he could be in a position of great power, so the genie turned him into Adolf Hitler,” Ian said monotonously.

“Sorry I missed it.” 

✦✦✦

Ian remembered it as being a Wednesday, when he walked into his and Mickey’s shared office to find Mickey perched behind his desk with his face a brilliant shade of red. Veins popped from his neck and his forehead as he yelled into the receiver of his desktop phone- and the worst of it was, Mickey wouldn’t even spare Ian a glance. 

Ian, for his part, stomach dropping on that all too familiar way, lifted a leg up to half sit- half stand against the desk, brow furrowed in question, even as Mickey stared at anything but him. 

“You tell those motherfuckers, I catch ‘em, and it’s gonna be a whole fucking lot worse for ‘em, you hear me? You tell ‘em they’re a whole lot better off turning themselves into you and letting you handle it. Cause if I have to, they ain’t gonna be walking away from it,” he spat, free hand jamming at the desk for emphasis. “Yeah, I get that, Iggy-,” he said and finally let his eyes linger on Ian’s, if only for a moment. “I get it. But I’m- look, I don’t wanna do anything I don’t have to. So I’m giving them a chance to let you handle it. This is their one shot. They don’t take it- then they’re fucking dead.” 

Ian had heard a lot through his tenure in the family. From robberies to take overs to drug runs to gun runs. And death, yes, but still, it never failed to stop his heart in its tracks. Because when Mickey said something like that- he meant it. 

“Tell me when it’s done,” he said finally, and slammed the phone back onto the cradle. He sat back in his chair and rubbed at his temples as his eyes pinched shut and his breath tried in vain to slow down and simulate some sense of normalcy. 

“You wanna tell me about it?” Ian asked carefully, so carefully and softly as he slid from the edge of the desk and sat himself across Mickey’s thighs, hoping and praying that a little bit of closeness would bring back down to earth. 

“No,” was the short reply, even as he wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist and pushed his face against the crook of Ian’s neck. 

“C’mon, Mick. Partners, right?” 

“Yeah. Partners. That’s why all of this is going on in the first place,” Mickey sighed as he leaned back once more, but made no move to push Ian away. 

“Excuse me?” Ian was a little offended, not quite understanding where Mickey was coming from or why he was saying any of those awful things. 

“Some people got a problem. With us. With me. I’m getting it handled.” Ian swallowed at the information; it wasn’t as if he didn’t already know that things within the family were somewhat shaky on that front - as evidenced by the Christmas Eve events. But he hadn’t thought that it was  _ that _ bad - he had thought that no matter what the members thought, they had either too much fear of Mickey, or too much respect for the Milkovich name to actually try anything. 

“Think things are gonna be okay?” Ian asked softly, his forehead forming worried creases as he ran one of his hands up and down Mickey’s clothed arm in soothing motions, his other five fingers absentmindedly making their way to the back of Mickey’s neck, toying with the short strands. 

“Told you, Fish,” Mickey said, patting the side of his thigh in a silent request for him to get off of his lap. “I’m handling it.” Mickey tried to stand up, but Ian made no motion to move, so he just barely managed to lift himself before hopelessly falling back into the chair. He raised his brows at Ian - forming his face into that expression that had originally been meant to scare Ian off, but by now, it just meant ‘ _ Come on, man. _ ’ 

Ian didn’t say anything. Instead he held Mickey’s face in between his hands - less of a soft gesture, and more of an effort to force him to look him in the eyes, make him understand that Ian wouldn’t take such a weak answer. Ian raised his brows; he said everything with his face. He didn’t need to open his mouth. 

Mickey eventually gave in, rolling his eyes as he reached up to Ian’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face; their hands fell in between their bodies, fingers lazily toying with each other. 

  
“Look…” Mickey said, eyes flickering away from Ian’s for a moment before they were back. “We both know how safe this life is - we sure as hell ain’t any safer, livin’ the way we do,” he shrugged. Then he was silent for a beat. Ian took that beat to wonder if he was saying what he thought he was saying. If he was saying ‘ _ Someone might kill us one day. Maybe they’ll kill one of us and the other one will have to live with that. _ ’ The thought formed a lump in Ian’s throat. “But like hell…” Mickey said, then, taking Ian’s hands in a firm grip. “Like hell we’re going down without a fight, Fish. We ain’t hiding, okay? We got people on _our_ side too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, we're trying to spread out the last few chapters!


	27. twenty seven

He couldn’t sleep. He tried, of course, to close his eyes and let his body relax; to drift off and dream sweet dreams and wake up well rested without bags under his eyes or dark pink rings acting as a liner. He tried to roll closer to Mickey, who had vehemently disagreed with Ian’s idea to spend the night apart (we ain’t traditional, so we ain’t doing that dumb shit, Ian), tried letting his warmth and his scent deep into Ian, but nothing worked. He spent the night before his wedding staring at the ceiling with a giddy bubble of excitement brewing deep in his belly. 

When the alarm went off at seven in the morning, Ian was quick to whack the button and stop the noise, choosing instead to wake Mickey up a bit softer. 

“Mi-ick,” he rumbled in Mickey’s ear, letting his breath come out in hot waves against Mickey’s skin. “Wake up, s’our wedding day.” 

Mickey didn’t stir, but Ian hadn’t expected it to be so easy- it never was, always taking him far longer to crack his eyes open and force his limbs to start working. In the beginning, when he and Ian were still new, when Terry was still alive and things were a little rockier, Mickey was quick to wake up- and Ian wasn’t sure he ever let himself fully rest. But that was in the past, and Ian much preferred this version of Mickey. One where he let himself go. Trusted that there would be a tomorrow to wake up to. 

“Mickey...” he tried again, letting his pointer finger draw a maze of designs against Mickey’s steadily rising and falling chest. Still, Mickey didn’t make a move to stir, and Ian grinned, knowing he’d have to step up his efforts. 

“Mikhailo,” he sing songed, casting the comforter aside and throwing a leg over Mickey’s waist to properly straddle him. “You gonna get your ass up so you can marry me, fuckhead?” It was inelegant, sure, but it was Mickey’s brand of romance, and Ian was happy to oblige. 

Mickey, however, merely groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes, as he muttered; “Changed my mind, we’re breaking up. Get out, I’ll leave your shit on the lawn.” Ian rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t find it within himself to be even playfully annoyed. It was their wedding day. The day of their wedding. He was going to promise Mickey Milkovich forever. How the fuck could he even be slightly annoyed today? 

He grabbed Mickey’s wrists, pinning them above his head as he hovered his face above his, observing the way the sudden brightness caused him to blink repeatedly in an attempt to get used to it. When he gave up and closed them again, Ian huffed, giving his chin a playful bite. 

“Mick _ ey _ ,” he whined, holding onto the last syllable. “We’re getting married,” he said, unsure whether he was saying it to remind Mickey, or just because he liked saying it - because he was excited and he wanted Mickey to wake up so that he could be excited, too. “Please get up,” he begged, pushing his bottom lip out until it nudged Mickey’s. “We’re gonna be husbands.” 

“Great,” Mickey grunted, still not bothering to open his eyes. “If you’re not gonna let me sleep for another hour how about we get an early start on the honeymoon?” Despite the suggestion, Mickey made no move to roll his hips, or try to get his wrists out of Ian’s grip. 

“We’re not alone, they’re already setting up downstairs,” Ian reminded him. Well - he wasn’t sure, but he figured - as it had been decided that Iggy, Svetlana and some other non-violent and agreeable acquaintances would use the spare key around seven and get started on the arch, and everything else they would need to make their backyard a wedding venue. 

“Too bad, guess I’ll sleep for a bit,” Mickey said, eyes still closed. Ian was starting to get annoyed, but then Mickey sniffed - a tired sniff, his nose scrunching for just a second - and Ian lost any and all emotions other than love and happiness. Ian sighed, and got off of Mickey, making his way into the bathroom. Usually, they would shower together, but he wanted to do something different today; so he started filling up the tub, making sure that it was as hot as it could possibly be without scolding them. As the water poured, he made his way back out into the room and went over to Mickey; Mickey, who still had his hands above his head from where Ian had put them. 

After taking a second to appreciate the view, Ian used his thumb and middle finger to snap at Mickey’s nose. 

“I have to wake you up again and we’re not consummating this marriage for another year,” Ian spat out gruffly, but it was all a tease, and Mickey knew it. Because before Ian could make any type of move, he was grabbed around his waist and flung against the bed, this time with Mickey straddling his hips and pinning his wrists above his head. 

“What was that, tough guy? You got something you were saying?” He murmured, leaning down to speak against Ian’s cheek as he ground his hips downward. 

“There’s people here, Mickey,” Ian whispered back, sounding every bit of scandalized, though he thought that Mickey probably knew better. 

“You’ve bent me over my desk at the office, man. Now you’re gonna be shy?” 

“Shut up. Go get in the bath,” Ian sighed, trying to wiggle his way free. 

“A bath? What kind of gay shit...” 

“Mickey. You’re marrying me. A man. That’s pretty gay. And I’m getting in, too. Start our day relaxing before it all gets hectic.” 

“ _ You’re _ gay,” Mickey shot back, seemingly getting a little bit too comfortable again, closing his eyes, face nuzzled into the crook of Ian’s neck. Before Ian could point out that, yes, he was very much gay, and that was kind of the entire point of today - Mickey sleepily added; “Just… like having ‘nother man’s dick in my ass.” 

Ian had about a thousand possible comebacks to that - ones that pointed out how sure, Mickey just liked having another man's dick in his ass. Just like Mickey just liked falling asleep in Ian’s arms, and just like he just liked it when Ian kissed his cheek in the morning, and just like he just told Ian he loved him on at least a weekly basis, and just like he had told Ian on several occasions that he was the love of his life - not sober, because they weren’t really that kind of couple, but the point stood. Regardless, Mickey’s comment was clearly one without a hint of seriousness in it, so Ian simply delivered a smack to his ass, maneuvering him off of himself. 

“Bath, bitch. Now,” Ian said, pulling a groaning Mickey onto his feet and across the carpeted floor. 

✦✦✦

“See, don’t you wish you wouldn’t have fought me so hard, now?” Ian grinned once Mickey’s sigh could be heard over the swishing sound of him getting comfortable. He leaned back heavily against Ian’s chest, closing his eyes and going boneless. 

“Shut up. I’ll fight you any day,” he muttered tiredly, not making an ounce of sense. But his voice got lower in that sleepy, scratchy way that Ian loved, and he couldn’t find it in himself to do anything but scoff and rest his chin against Mickey’s shoulder. 

“How about you just save your strength for later?” Mickey hummed his agreement and sank lower in the water. 

✦✦✦

The downstairs was a mess of organized chaos. Chairs and flowers and this and that and the other littered the living room, with Svetlana at the helm barking orders and pointing long, painter fingers around the room. She smirked when she saw them- with their tousled hair and swollen lips. Ian assumes it probably wasn’t hard to guess what they’d been up to, so he gave her a polite nod and hoped for the best. 

“There is breakfast in kitchen. Eat now. Long day. You need energy.” The voice, albeit with a stronger accent, was so similar to Svetlana’s that Ian was confused for a tenth of a second, before his brain caught up, laying eyes on Sashenka. It had taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time to learn the name of Svetlana’s younger sister - her family in general, really - but since they were also Yevgeny’s family, he had forced himself to learn every single name of every single sister, brother, uncle, aunt, cousin, babushka, dedushka, and close family friend. “I make  tvorozhniki with cherniki and yabloki. Is in kitchen. Eat.” 

Sashenka gestured towards the kitchen, and then headed out into the backyard, probably to see what else Svetlana needed her to do. Left alone in the living room, Ian turned to Mickey. 

“Переклад?” He asked, using the Ukrainian word for ‘ _ translation _ ’ just for kicks. The majority of Svetlana’s family had a bit of a looser grip on the English language than she did, but sometimes Ian got the feeling that Sashenka threw in Russian words just to annoy people. Mickey huffed in amusement, knocking the side of his forefinger against the tip of his nose. 

“She made pancakes with blueberries and apples,” he shrugged, giving Ian’s bicep a gentle whack in place of a ‘ _ come on _ ’ as he headed into the kitchen, Ian following closely behind. 

As Ian sat down next to Mickey at the kitchen island; as they dug into the plate of perfect Russian pancakes - as Ian brought his fork over to Mickey’s stack, and was rewarded with a flail of his arm, and a frown on his face - Ian found himself incredibly grateful that he was marrying such a stubborn piece of shit. He couldn’t imagine spending the morning of their wedding  _ apart _ from Mickey. Who had ever come up with such a tradition? The house was a loud mess - orders being barked in Russian, Ukrainian, and English; trucks pulling up outside with deliveries; apparently the bakery had messed up the order for the cake, but it was being handled - Ian didn’t care about any of it. 

“The fuck you grinning for, man?” Mickey asked, shoving a large bite into his mouth, clearly fighting his own grin. Ian’s happy expression merely grew. He was going to spend the rest of his life with Mickey Milkovich. How could he do anything but beam? 

✦✦✦

After they had finished the pancakes, they were ushered up the staircase.

Ian watched Mickey watch himself in the mirror, his less than nimble fingers working on his bow tie- a practice, as they wouldn’t need to be dressed for several more hours. Ian grinned at the sight of Mickey in a plain white t-shirt, tongue poking out of his lips and eyebrows pushed way down as he tried, and failed, time and time again to get it just right. 

“Son of a fucking-,” Mickey grit out, and Ian took the as his cue to step up behind him, probably closer than was absolutely necessary. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said through a smile, arms coming up and over Mickey to move his hands away. 

“Yeah, no shit, genius.” 

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” Ian tutted, “don’t take it out on me that my fingers are far better at this kind of thing.” He worked the fabric of the bow as he went, skillfully moving and weaving it together. 

“Better, my ass.” 

“Better for your ass,” Ian corrected, spinning him around to bring them face to face. “There you go. Perfect,” he whispered, lips twitching with a calm and serene smile. His heart filled, even at the sight of Mickey in just a t shirt and bow tie, ridiculous in its own right. But it didn’t matter. His heart would fill if Mickey were in a burlap sack. 

Ian was just about to lean in and kiss him for the thousandth time that morning, when the door to their bedroom opened up and slammed against the wall. 

“What the fuck, Ig-,” Mickey started to demand, but was cut off. 

“We got trouble downstairs.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Mickey cursed, although Ian didn’t think he sounded very surprised. Then again, neither was Ian. Mickey pulled at the bowtie, undoing it surprisingly smoothly, leaving it on the floor of their bedroom as he went over to their nightstand and pulled out two revolvers, tossing one to Ian, as Iggy’s steps could be heard, already making his way back down the staircase. 

“Mick,” Ian said, reaching out for him with no real coordination. He ended up grabbing his bicep, holding him against the wall outside their bedroom. 

“The fuck, Fish? We gotta -” 

“They’re not touching a fucking hair on that head of yours, you hear me?” Mickey rolled his eyes, trying to get out of his grip as a gunshot rang from downstairs. “You hear me?” Ian repeated, moving his grip to Mickey’s cheeks, contorting his face somewhat. “Not a fucking _ hair _ .” 

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. “Me too, Fish,” he said with a gentle slap to Ian’s cheek; a response to the three words that could be heard through Ian’s threat. Then he got himself out of Ian’s grip, and the two rushed down, the sound of a large physical fight growing less muffled the closer they got to the entrance. 

Mickey got there first, because while Ian had longer legs, Mickey had years on him- years of practice running from the law, running toward danger. He was always running either to or away from something and if Ian had time to think about it- he’s have been heart broken. 

“Heard we got a problem, boys!” Mickey announced, jumping right into the thick of it without a moments hesitation- and Ian was about to follow him blindly, until the sight of Svetlana caught his attention. 

“Svet- where’s Yev?” He barked, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his eyes flitted around as Mickey moved. 

“Bedroom,” she breathed quickly. 

“Go to him. Stay up there no matter what!” His voice came out harsh and ragged, but he couldn’t stop to feel bad about it- charging into the fray with a ferocious growl a fist cocked back and ready to strike. 

He didn’t know who was who- in that, he knew all of them. Every single one of them had eaten at his table, been around his son. Each of them, at one point, had been trusted and respected. So, he relied solely on who gave him a murderous look, and hit where he felt necessary. 

There were a barrage of shouts and screams and yells and grunts, and Ian couldn’t discern who was who- yet again, until he heard Mickey’s voice. 

“Get ‘em out to the car! My kid’s here! We can’t deal with them here!”

As they wrestled the men out of the house, Ian heard someone say something about how Yevgeny was surely fucked anyway, living with two fags, but he knew what was going to happen before the gunshot even rang - once; twice. Ian didn’t have to look to know that Mickey had hit an organ on the first try, and fired the second one for shock value. He was a good shot. 

There were a lot of men on both sides - but Iggy’s men outnumbered the attackers, and while every single one of them - on both sides - were talented and smooth, the attackers were mostly soldiers - not nearly as much experience on their hands as who they were going up against.

Ian wanted to keep track of Mickey - he wanted nothing more - but it didn’t take very long until he was tackled by someone his own size - perhaps slightly heavier - and he didn’t have time to do anything but fight back, save himself from the situation by the skin of his teeth; skin beneath his nails, blood in his mouth. Despite the many fights Ian had taken part in in his life, he was soon on his back, the other man on top of him, as he delivered blow after blow to Ian’s jaw. Just as Ian was getting too tired, his vision too bloody to fight back, the weight was torn off of him. 

Ian took a second to breathe, pushing himself to sit up, as he watched Iggy drag the man away, a bag made out of fabric over his head as he wrestled him into a car. As Ian caught his breath, he realized that there were two bodies on the lawn - neither moving, both bleeding more than any living person could. The rest of the attackers were being treated in a very similar way as the man who had attacked Ian - bag over their head, into the car. Some in trunks, some in backseats with Iggy’s men next to them, pointing a gun at their temples. 

“Віднесіть їх до стоянки,” Mickey instructed. When Ian looked over, he watched him spit blood out onto the grass. Відріжте пальці, щоб вони відчували біль. Потім виконати. Один за одним. Змусити їх спостерігати, як помирають один одного.” 

Ian swallowed, understanding every single word that came out of his partner’s mouth. ‘ _ Take them to the parking lot. Cut off their fingers so they feel pain. Then execute them. One by one. Make them watch each other die. _ ’

Pain exploded in and around Ian’s head. His ribs ached and his breath felt like it was made of fire in his throat. He pulled himself up to his knees, despite the dizzy feeling swimming behind his eyes and in his ears. He could ignore it; the pain, the sick feeling threatening to bubble up and out. He could ignore it, because Mickey was bleeding, too. 

“Mick,” he rasped out, wiping the back of his hand against his sticky red mouth. “Mickey!” He tried, a little louder, finally finding his feet beneath him and the world right side up. 

“Fuck,” Mickey spat as he scrambled over. His hands were everywhere. On the side of Ian’s face, gently moving it from side to side as he inspected the damage. On his sides and his back as his fingers felt along for broken bones. In his hair as he threaded it back away from his face. And finally, around his neck before he pulled him close with shaky arms. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ian.” 

“You didn’t do it,” Ian coughed out a wet laugh. “I’m fine. I’m okay. Wedding pictures are gonna be fucking hideous, though.” 

“You still wanna do this?” Mickey asked delicately, and Ian pulled away sharply. 

“You don’t?” Anger took over the pain, and he started to see red in a whole different way. 

“Sure I do. I just... would understand if you didn’t.” To his credit, he looked contrite- and more than that, Mickey looked sad. 

“Mickey. We’re in this. I’m not... fuck, you have to know I wouldn’t leave because of some ignorant pieces of shit. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever. We’re in this. Us.”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, the sighed word seemingly more said to himself than to Ian. “Yeah,” he said again, pulling Ian into a hug, as the cars burned rubber down the street towards the parking lot on the other side of town. 

They hobbled their way back into the house, and towards the staircase, waving off the concerned looks they got along the way, assuring everyone that the wedding would go on as planned. It took them about three times the usual amount of time to climb the stairs, but eventually they made it into their ensuite, and got to cleaning each other’s faces up; something they were well-versed in by now. 

“Baby...” Ian said, as he pressed a cotton ball soaked with alcohol to a cut on Mickey’s face, and he winced as a result. 

“This ain’t the time for stupid ass petnames,” Mickey grumbled. 

“No,” Ian said, voice slightly monotone as he focused on picking out a piece of gravel with the tweezers. “I’m calling you a baby. I’m insulting you,” he clarified, finally getting a hold of the small rock, placing it onto the sink, cleaning up the cut once more. 

“Dick,” Mickey huffed. Ian hummed. 

“A dick you’re gonna be stuck with for the rest of our lives,” he said, knocking his knee against Mickey’s, attempting to lighten the mood before they switched places, Ian sitting down on the lid of the toilet, and Mickey reaching for the cotton balls.

“Look like shit,” Mickey told him, voice sounding sincere even if his eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. 

“Still look better than you.” 

“Ay, you won’t hear any arguments there,” Mickey laughed quietly as he went about wiping Ian’s face clean with impossibly gentle hands. Ian could see the way his throat restricted as he swallowed- thick and heavy and with force. His hands shook against Ian’s skin, and his breath came out just as unsteady. 

“I’m okay,” Ian assured him, his own hands coming up to grip at Mickey’s wrists. His thumb rubbed soothingly, but if anything, it only made Mickey breathe harder- and his eyes grow glassy. 

“This is always gonna happen, Ian. We’re never gonna be safe. Not- not here. With these people. You’re always gonna be in danger if you’re with me.” 

“Mickey. Don’t.” Ian gripped at him harder, pulling him so that Mickey was straddling him stop the fucking toilet of all places. Ian didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his face against Mickey’s chest, breathing him in- though his scent was tainted with the rusty copper of blood. “I can take care of myself.”

“Your face says otherwise, Fish.” Mickey’s arms wrapped around Ian’s neck again, his fingers parting Ian’s matted hair. “We need... we need to make a plan. To get the fuck out. I don’t know. We can’t stay.” 

“Mickey...” Ian warned, pulling back enough to start to push Mickey away, but he held on tightly. 

“No, listen. You know I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. We need-,” 

“No. We need to check on Yevgeny,” Ian cut in, finally able to move Mickey up and away from him. The sinking feeling grew worse as Mickey’s touch left his, but this way of thinking- this crazy, dangerous train of thought- was not one that Ian was willing to entertain. Not that day. 

“Ian-,”

“No. Yevgeny. Now.” 

As Ian walked out of the bathroom, though, Mickey didn’t stop him. Instead he could hear the heavy steps following him through their bedroom, through the hallway, and down the staircase, until finally they made it into the living room, a blur of their son coming rushing towards them. 

“Dad!” Yevgeny cried, throwing his arms around Ian’s waist in a way that caused him to wince; he didn’t do it audibly, though, didn’t want to have to cut the hug short, or give it up. Instead, he suffered, wrapping his own arms around the smaller shoulders, pressing a kiss to the hair. 

“I’m okay; we’re okay,” Ian promised. Yevgeny held onto him for a minute longer, and then he let go, looking to Mickey. Perhaps he mumbled the word ‘ _ Pops _ ’ as he walked over, but Ian couldn’t quite tell through the thickness of his voice, as the tears had started to make their way down his cheeks now. Ian felt his own throat close up as he watched Mickey hold onto their son, mumbling assurances of his own. 

Eventually, Svetlana had to walk up to them and put a soft hand onto Yevgeny’s shoulder. 

“Zhenya, you can hug them later, they need to change into their tuxedos now,” she said, gently prying him away from Mickey. Then she said something in Russian that Ian didn’t quite understand, but he heard her say her sister’s name, and Yevgeny left - albeit not happily - in the direction of the backyard. “That is if this is still happening,” Svetlana said, looking at them both. 

“Yes,” Ian said before Mickey had a chance to cut in. She left with a nod, and Ian heard the sigh of Mickey’s objection, but before he could get a word out, he turned to him, shaking his head as he placed a hand on either side of his face. “No, listen to me, Mickey. This might be an argument that’s not done, but we’re not having it today, okay? It’s our fucking wedding day. We clearly don’t agree on where we go from here, but I think we both know it ain’t gonna be apart,” Ian said, then he swallowed, as he waited for Mickey to stop avoiding his eyes. “Is it?” Ian asked, voice softer now. “Do you see a future without me? ‘Cause I sure as hell can’t see one without you,” he said, his stern tone perhaps undercutting the sweet words somewhat; yet he could see the edges of Mickey’s mouth twitch. 

“‘Course I don’t.” 

“Then we’re getting married,” Ian decided. “Fuck everything else. Alright? Just today, fuck everything else.” 

✦✦✦

The shared shower was far less relaxing than their early morning bath- the bath that seemed as if it had been years since, rather than just a few hours. A few hours of an attack. Of Mickey being unsafe. Of their son worrying and crying. 

Ian understood where Mickey was coming from, he thought, as he lathered you his hair and watched dried blood run the shampoo pink at his feet as it washed down the drain. Of course he understood. This wasn’t exactly the life he’d imagined for himself- the... danger, of it all. But if they pulled out, wouldn’t it only make it worse? For everyone involved. Not just Mickey and Ian- but Iggy. Svet. Their son? And everyone else that made up the outfit. No option was a good one. 

“Is my back scratched up?” Mickey asked, breaking through Ian’s racing mind. “Stings like a mother fucker.” 

“It is... who scratches in a fight?” Ian scoffed, tracing a soft finger along the angry, red protrusions. 

“Pretty sure that was you,” Mickey laughed, and finally, it didn’t sound strained. All morning it was laced with trepidation- and the new light hearted tone it took on was just as good as alcohol, calming Ian’s mind and steady his pounding heart. 

“Well. That sounds like more of a ‘you,’ problem,” Ian let himself tease, poking at a scratch and watching Mickey bare his teeth. 

“Already been in one fight today. I ain’t afraid of another, Fish.” 

“Bring it... Baby.” 

“Yeah, we ain’t never done that shit, and we ain’t starting now,” Mickey shook his head, handing the bottle of shampoo over to Ian, turning back around without a second thought. Ian rolled his eyes, pouring some into his palm, starting to lather the dark strands free of sweat and blood. 

“Really? Think it’s kind of cute,” Ian lied, mostly to get under Mickey’s skin. He was never bothered when other couples called each other names like that, but it had never been their thing. “You call me Fish, why can’t I call you baby?” Ian pushed, digging a little bit deeper; perhaps a part of him wanted Mickey to let out some of his tension on him - wanted them to bicker so that they could both calm down. 

For once, Mickey didn’t seem to bite. Instead, a low moan made its way out of his throat as Ian massaged his scalp. Ian swallowed as he let Mickey lean his head back against his shoulder. 

“Nah,” Mickey said sleepily. “Fuck sweet nicknames, man. Fish got a story behind it,” he mumbled, keeping his head on Ian’s shoulder, eyes closed as Ian switched to the soap and started cleaning his chest with the cloth. 

“What’s that story?” Ian asked softly. Mickey hummed. 

“‘S a story ‘bout how fucking naive and clumsy you were back when we met,” Mickey said, earning himself a smack to his upper thigh; they chuckled as he stood up, and turned around to take the rag from Ian. As he cleaned the freckled chest, Ian looked down at him; he kept his eyes on the patches of soaked, red hair, biting his bottom lip. As if he was deliberately avoiding Ian’s eyes, nervous to say something. Ian stayed quiet, giving him the time he needed. “Know, I always wanted you,” Mickey admitted softly. “‘fore you walked in on that shit, ‘fore everything - fuck, back in the old neighborhood, when we were growin’ up, I’d see your freckled ass running around and I… got a feelin’ I weren’t old enough to know, but I, uh… still got it. Still feel it. Every day.” 

“Never told me that before,” Ian’s voice came out in a whisper just loud enough to be heard over the spray of the shower. His hands fell to Mickey’s shoulders, not doing anything than resting there- anything just just feeling and being felt. 

“Never had a reason to, I guess,” Mickey shrugged, bringing Ian’s hands up with them. 

“Mick... s’at why... is that why you brought me on board? In the office... you didn’t... you didn’t change everything for me just cause you...” he trailed off, it knowing the right way to ask. The right way to phrase it to make Mickey seem like anything other than a lovestruck puppy. Because he was, and Ian knew it. 

“Yeah. That’s why.” 

“Mickey...” 

There wasn’t much else to say, so he didn’t say anything else. He kissed him, and poured every word that Mickey wouldn’t want to hear into it. He cupped his head and his jaw and pushed his body to line up perfectly. He kissed him and kissed him until they were both breathless and the water was starting to cool. Not moving forward. Not moving back. 

He pulled back and watched Mickey watch him for a while longer; Ian’s fingers trailing over the angle of Mickey’s jaw, and Mickey’s fingers trailing over Ian’s shoulder blades. 

“Plus, thought maybe I could negotiate sparing you for some head,” Mickey said after a beat, shit eating grin on his face. And it was okay. They’d said what they needed to say- and kissed how they needed to kiss. Ian always preferred the shit talking pieces of trash anyway.

“Much as I want your dick down my throat, sweetheart,” Ian said, deliberately using the nickname in order to bother Mickey - as a result, earning himself a groan and a smack to the chest. “We’re gonna be late for our wedding,” Ian finished, gently using the side of his index finger to hold Mickey’s chin up. 

“That right?” Mickey raised a brow, stepping closer. Ian nodded, humming before closing the space in between them. 

They got dressed in their bedroom - not without Svetlana’s intermittent interrupting knocks on the door, though. 

Ian had merely been on the sidelines when it came to picking out their tuxedos - he hadn’t been completely clueless - but like with most of the wedding, Mickey had seemed to want to handle most of it, and Ian had let him. And now, as he stood in front of Mickey, gently tying the bow tie around his neck before taking a step back, he found himself swallowing a lump in his throat; a good one. 

“Wow,” Ian said, letting his eyes wander up and down Mickey’s body, and the way the three piece tuxedo fit him like he was born in it; slacks, jacket, vest - all of it. Perfect. “You’re ugly as fuck.” 

Mickey huffed in amusement. 

“Least I ain’t one big fucking freckle.” 

Ian only grinned back, flashing his teeth and crinkling his eyes; a pure, unfettered smile that he thought might just show through his whole body. And Mickey graciously gave him one back just as brightly. 

Their door knob twisted and before Ian could be irritated about it, Yevgeny’s head popped through the crack. 

“Dad! You look like you got hit in the head with a baseball bat. Are you okay?” His worried voice asked, stepping further into the room to get a better look at Ian. 

“You don’t think I look ruggedly handsome?” He asked, trying to downplay the fact that Yevgeny was right- he looked like shit. Didn’t feel too good, either. 

“I think you look like you got hit by a train,” Yevgeny deadpanned, and Ian couldn’t help but laugh. Leave it to Mickey’s son (Ian’s too, but Mickey’s blood) to be completely unfiltered, even if what he said was almost too blunt. 

“Thanks, kid. Real encouraging,” Mickey broke in, but his face held nothing but fondness, probably having the same thoughts as Ian. 

“Well, you guys better get down there. Mom’s gonna have a fit if she has to wait any longer.” 

“We’ll be right there,” Mickey said, giving Yevgeny a nod in place of asking him to leave them alone for a second longer. The door shut once again, and Ian looked at him, feeling his chest expand as he took a breath. “Ready to tie my ass down, Fish?” 

“Never been more ready,” Ian said, unable to bring himself to come up with a comeback, as he let his eyes wander across Mickey’s face. “Not for anything,” he added, as he placed a hand on the back of his neck and brought him closer until he could catch Mickey’s top lip in between his own. 

“Makes one of us,” Mickey mumbled against his mouth, earning himself a slap to his thigh. 

“Dick,” Ian shot back, the two struggling to kiss through their grins. 

Ian and Mickey walked together down the staircase, but as soon as they reached the living room, they were pulled apart, and Ian was dragged out into the backyard, past the guests on the chairs and the decorations that he didn’t have time to appreciate. 

“Two minutes,” Sashenka told him - and Lip, who he had been led to - before disappearing. Ian took a breath as his brother reached up to fix his bowtie. They were standing behind a row of cypress trees, acting as a divider from the guests and the altar. Ian had been kind of scared that they would be freezing as it was a little bit later in the year, but now he found himself appreciating the outdoor wedding - the cool weather chilled it rapidly warming body. 

“You nervous?” Lip asked, looking up at him. Ian nodded. 

“Yeah.” Of course he was nervous. “Not about him, though,” he felt the need to assure his best man. “They all here?” 

“Yeah - Fiona’s here - Debbie, Carl, Liam… Tami.” 

“You guys doing okay again?” Ian asked, knowing that Lip’s relationship with his girlfriend had been less than steady the past few months. 

“I don’t know, it could go either way.” 

“You got a habit of fucking it up, huh?” Ian asked, earning himself a soft ‘ _ fuck you _ ’ from his brother, before the officiator showed up, and asked Ian if he was ready. 

Ian stood at the front of the aisle, hands clasped respectfully at his front, nervous and twitchy despite his sureness- rows and rows of eyes were on him, and for a fleeting moment, he couldn’t help but think of what a spectacle it all must have seemed. Men didn’t marry men, and legally, Ian wasn’t marrying Mickey. It was just Ian and Mickey, standing in front of a room full of people and saying, ‘fuck the system, and fuck you too.’ 

But the thought didn’t last long. It didn’t even stay nuzzled in his brain long enough to take root, because it was far more than that. It was a promise- to themselves and to each other, that what they had was forever. That Ian wouldn’t ever wake up to an empty bed and Mickey would always have someone to fight beside him. 

Yevgeny came out of the door, all smiles in his nice little tux, grown up in ways Ian couldn’t even imagine. He wore a sneaky looking smirk as he eyed Ian, carrying with him a tacky little pillow that Svetlana has insisted on. He marched proudly with his head held high, right to the front of the aisle before handing off his little pillow to Ian with a giggle, and took his place just in front of Iggy as Mickey’s best man. 

And if any little sign of doubt was lift in his mind, it evaporated from existence when the swell of music, something bluesy and crooning started up, and Mickey stepped from the back door with Svetlana (Mom should be involved, Pops) was attached to his arm to walk with him down the aisle. 

Ian had only just seen him moments earlier- helped him tie his tie and right his hair, and Mickey had seen him, too- helped him clean his face and tend to his blackening eye. But it was almost like seeing him for the first time. Seeing him in a new light. The way his face held a careful assuredness- one Ian could tell was seconds away from crumbling (Mickey was always a little more sappy than he let on), the way from even far back Ian could see the blues of his eyes. He was beautiful in a way that Ian wouldn’t have even been able to begin to put into words. 

And he was going to be Ian’s. Forever.

Ian found his jaw locking - and for once the feeling wasn’t coming from anger, but rather from the way he had to force himself not to cry. It was ridiculous, perhaps - but Ian was sappy, too. And now, Mickey was walking towards him, down the aisle - and Ian could barely breathe; this had never been a possibility - it had never been within Ian’s future - either of their futures. And to some, perhaps it still wasn’t, but fuck those people. 

As Mickey reached Ian, they both managed to keep their tears from spilling over onto their cheeks, but both pairs of eyes were glassy. 

“ _ Sap, _ ” Mickey mouthed; Ian could do nothing but let his smile grow as they turned to the officiator; who said several things, welcomed everyone to the ceremony, and all of that, but Ian wasn’t listening. In fact, he spent that entire speech trying to keep himself from telling him to speed it up - he just wanted to say  _ ‘I do _ ’. He wanted to be married. God, he wanted to marry Mickey. 

Before long, they were allowed to turn to each other, and Ian’s hands found Mickey’s just as quickly as Mickey’s found Ian’s, the two exchanging a reassuring squeeze. 

Time sped up for Ian. Everything around him in his peripheral flitted around in hyper speed, whirling and buzzing and turning into a blur. The only thing he could see was Mickey. The only thing he could hear was Mickey. The only thing he could feel was. Just. Mickey. 

Mickey and his soft voice, a low murmur of promised words. Mickey saying the words ‘ _ I, Mickey - take you, Ian, to be my husband. _ ’ Mickey and the smell of his shampoo- still strong enough for it to twine with the breeze. Mickey and his fingers gripping and re-gripping at Ian’s. Mickey and the little twitch of his lips and sniffle from his nose. 

And then it was Ian’s turn, and his heart sped up infinitesimally- pounding and hammering away at his ribs, threatening to break through and show itself to the outside world. It was so full that he thought the weight of it would have been enough to settle it down, but it wasn’t; and Ian couldn’t bring himself to mind it. For as long as he lived, he would let it beat for Mickey.

“I…” Ian said, before letting himself take a breath, as he stared into Mickey’s eyes, swallowing thickly. “Take you… _Mikhailo_ ,” he couldn’t help but use his full name, as he felt a smile take over his face. When they had met, Mickey hadn’t liked his full name - perhaps he still didn’t, in general - but Ian knew that he liked it when Ian said it. It had always been a way for Ian to say ‘ _ Hey. You can’t hide from me. I know you. I love you. _ ’ “To be my husband,” Ian continued. “To have and to hold you from this day forward. For better, or for worse. Richer, or poorer. In sickness, and in health. To love, and to cherish you,” Ian swallowed. “‘Til death do us apart.” 

“Mickey,” the officiator said, as Mickey had to let go of one of Ian’s hand in order to accept the ring he was handed. (They had considered going with the ones they had already been wearing, but eventually they had decided on keeping those, and adding a thin, gold band as well. “Do you take Ian to be your husband?” 

Ian looked into Mickey’s eyes, bracing himself for the words he knew would be echoing inside of his brain for the rest of his life. 

“I do,” Mickey said, as he carefully threaded the wedding band onto Ian’s ring finger. 

“Ian.” Ian took the other ring. “Do you take Mickey to be your husband?” 

“I absolutely do,” Ian said, before the officiator had even finished speaking. A few chuckles could be heard among the guests. He placed the ring onto Mickey’s finger, and they braided their hands again, eyes not leaving each other’s for a second. 

“I now pronounce you spiritually, and officially married.” Ian couldn’t help but turn to look at him, raising his eyebrows. 

“Now?” 

“Yes. Now.” 

With the officiator’s permission, Ian lunged at Mickey, hands grabbing onto either side of his face as they shared their first kiss as husbands. 

The following minutes were a bit of a blur - a good one; a happy one. They walked down the aisle, hand in hand, a round of applause ringing throughout the crowd. 

A wave of pats on the back, hugs and word of congratulations washed over Ian. Handshakes and familial kisses in his cheeks landed, and he was a little dizzy from all of the attention, but he soaked it up nonetheless, thankful that they had so many supporters- even if they’d been hard to come by. 

✦✦✦

Mickey was making his rounds, going from guest to guest with a bright smile. He looked... happy, was the only word that came to Ian’s mind as he watched from the corner of the room, slowly pulling on a chilled bottle of beer. He really should have gone out there and stood by his side, but he was content just to watch. It was a privilege of sorts, seeing that smile and knowing he was the reason for it. 

“Dad!” He heard, and forced himself to look away from Mickey and give his son the attention he wanted. 

“Oh. Hi,” he breathed, hastily wiping at his mouth when he caught sight of the woman standing by Yevgeny, looking confused as she shifted from foot to foot. 

“Hi,” she said tentatively. “I asked him to help me find his dad...” 

“He is my dad,” Yevgeny piped in, his expression matching hers in its confusion. 

“Think she meant your pops, Yevy. This is Mandy. Pops’ sister. You remember her from the pictures?” Ian stepped up behind Yevgeny with a hand on his shoulder, extending the other politely for her to shake. She didn’t, not at first. She eyed it for long enough that he was just about to drop it before mercifully obliging and reached her own hand out. 

“Kid calls you dad?” She asked, letting her eyes skate down to Yevgeny and back up. 

“He is my dad,” Yevgeny repeated, with feeling. “Pops is my other dad.” 

“I’m sorry, Yevgeny. Last time I saw you, you were still calling Mickey, ‘dada.’ Guess I missed the memo.”

“I haven’t called him dad in a long time. He called his dad, ‘Pops,’ so...” he shrugged, and she nodded her understanding. Ian nodded as well, a moment of awkward silence hanging in between them, before Ian squeezed Yev’s shoulder. 

“Why don’t you go find your mom, huh?” For once, Yevgeny didn’t question it, and ran off, as Ian took a step closer to Mandy - only because there was so much chatter around them. He struggled to keep his smile off of his face when she took one back. She was so much like Mickey; they even looked alike - the same blue eyes, the same round cheeks; her hair was longer, of course, but it was the same color. For a second, Ian wondered whether they were twins, before he remembered that Mandy was younger. 

“Thank you for coming, I think it’s gonna mean a lot to him,” Ian said, keeping his distance, as she had clearly set a boundary - Milkovich style - by taking that step back. She gave another nod; he could tell she wasn’t completely comfortable, but then again, he supposed that wasn’t too strange. In fact, it would probably be more strange for her to be at ease. “Does he know?” Ian hadn’t spoken to Mandy in weeks - he did know that Mickey had done so, but he hadn’t said anything about her coming to the wedding, and Ian hadn’t asked. 

“I told him. On the phone,” she nodded, and apparently Ian wasn’t nearly as cool as he tried to be, because in the next minute, she cracked a smile - a familiar one - as she shook her head. “I didn’t tell him you found me - figured you’d want to get married ‘fore he kills you.” 

Ian huffed his amusement at that. 

“Mandy?” 

Ian immediately stepped aside at the voice that came from behind him. He watched as the siblings greeted each other - slightly awkwardly, but warmly, nonetheless. For a minute, Ian didn’t know what to do with himself, but then he ended up slowly walking away, leaving them to it. It felt too private. 

He took a lap around the room, finding most of his own siblings, sharing a few words here and there - a hug, a kiss on the cheek. Before he knew it, the grey sky had faded to black, and the music was being turned up, most of the guests taking their places on the make-shift dance floor - really just the foyer, but it was about five times the size of a typical foyer. 

After some consideration, Ian and Mickey had agreed on skipping the first dance tradition - it wasn’t something either of them had been looking forward to - dancing while everyone else was watching. Ian did, however, love the feeling of dancing with Mickey, later that night - while everyone else did so as well, no one paying the couple too much attention. 

As Etta James’ new song  _ At Last _ played, Ian had his arms wrapped around Mickey’s neck, his chin on top of his head, as they slowly swayed together, just breathing it in - not just each other; but this. Marriage. Wedding. Forever. Happiness. 

“Thank you,” Mickey said, after a good few minutes of silence in between them. Ian frowned to himself, relaxing his arms enough to let his husband look up at him. Mickey rolled his eyes as they met Ian’s. “‘M not an idiot, Fish,” he sighed. “Mandy,” he clarified, then. “Thanks.” 

And for other couples, perhaps that wouldn’t be enough - perhaps they would need to have a longer conversation, more words of gratitude, or a longer explanation, but as for Ian and Mickey - they weren’t one of those couples. Instead Ian just gave him a soft smile, and let his lips rest against Mickey’s forehead. 

✦✦✦

In the early hours of the next day, Ian sat plastered against the window, looking down below as the ground grew further and further away, leaving behind smatterings of colors that soon became indiscernible from one another. He was transfixed,being so high up for the first time with Mickey by his side. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. Except that it wasn’t. 

He turned to tell Mickey to look at a particularly tall building peeking out from beneath the early morning clouds, but was met with the sight of white knuckles and gritted teeth. Mickey was paler than usual, all of the blood drained from his face leaving behind darkly shadowed eyes and dusty rose colored lips. 

“You okay, Mick?” He asked delicately, fighting against his instinct to tease; nothing good would come of it just that moment, and if Ian was fluent in anything, it was speaking Mickey. 

“Mhmm.” 

“Mickey...” Ian tried again, skating his nails against the back of Mickey’s hand as it sat plastered to the armrest. “We’re okay. Don’t think of the journey- think of the destination,” and then he lowered his voice, “and think of all the places ‘m’gonna fuck you once we get there.” He thought a little break from the tension would do him well, but Mickey didn’t take the bait. 

“Yeah, great. You get that from a fortune cookie, Raggedy Ann?” 

“You tell me where they got fortune cookies talking about fucking, and we’ll eat there every night,” Ian shrugged, trying to push past Mickey’s sour attitude. He knew he couldn’t let Mickey get under his skin, lest they fight the whole time, so he took to a different approach; one that was tried and true and had worked for years. “Look at me, Mikhailo.” 

Inwardly pleased when Mickey’s eyes snapped to his at full attention, he put on his most charming smile and let himself breathe a little. 

“We’re okay. You’re okay. Don’t let this stress you out, okay? You hungry or anything? Thirsty? A Coke to settle your stomach?” 

“I’m fine,  _ mom _ ,” Mickey snapped, and Ian shook his head. 

“Wanna try that again?” At Ian’s question, Mickey took a visible breath, before sighing.

“I’m okay,” he said, and Ian gave him a nod; he wanted to lean over and steal a kiss - and for a second, he was going to, seeing as they were in a rented plane (Ian had a strong feeling that Mickey had inherited quite a bit of money from Aleksandr, but he had never felt the need to bring it up) and no one would see them, anyway - but Mickey looked a bit too pale. 

“You need to throw up?” Ian asked, but Mickey shook his head. “You wanna tell me where we’re going?” Ian changed the subject, then, letting his fingertips trail over the back of Mickey’s hand. At first, he had been a little bit annoyed - spending their wedding night in a car, and not on top of Mickey; or under Mickey, or behind Mickey, or - well, alone and naked with Mickey - but once he had understood that Mickey had actually planned something for their honeymoon that would leave them alone for several days, suddenly Ian hadn’t minded it so much anymore. 

“No,” Mickey said, and Ian rolled his eyes; then he leaned back in his own seat, though, and looked at his husband; Mickey spent nearly an entire minute looking at the floor - seemingly as a way to keep his nausea at bay - before he looked up to find Ian staring at him with a small smile on his face. “What?” 

“You’re romantic,” Ian said, laughing when Mickey flipped him off. 

✦✦✦

It didn’t take more than a few hours - most of which was spent asleep - before the plane landed. 

  
  


“So what’s in Montana?” Ian asked from the passenger seat of a rented car, eyes trailing along the landscape as Mickey sped along the road. It was beautiful, he’d give Mickey that much. The sprawling mountains and the lightly falling snow brought with them a sense of peace and comfort, but Ian couldn’t say he’d imagined spending his honeymoon in an avalanche. 

“C’mon, Fish. Where’s your sense of adventure?” Mickey looked far better, the pink tinge taking back over against his skin, replacing the sickly green that he’d sported the entire time they weren’t on land. 

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Just saying I never took you for a mountain main. Although, now that I’m thinking about you chopping wood...” he grinned, letting his hand fall to Mickey’s thigh. 

“Really? You’d rather me chop wood than handle it with a little more finesse?” Ian let himself laugh high and loud as his head fell against the seat behind him, the worries of big city living bleeding away for the week. And he had to admit, Mickey looked good against the dusky purple sky just beyond the window. 

“I had a lot of fun last night,” Ian mused, seemingly out of nowhere. “Was really nice. Thank you for putting that together for us, Mick.” Mickey’s answering smile was more than enough of a reply. “Was nice seeing everyone. Meeting Mandy...” 

“Yeah, man,” Mickey agreed, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “Glad you got to meet her. She’s a bitch, but... my sister, y’know?” 

“I didn’t think she was a bitch. She was just like you... so... maybe a little bit of a bitch,” Ian teased, digging his nails into Mickey’s leg just because. Mickey hissed a breath, and Ian grinned before he let go, smoothing the sting with a gentle rub of his palm. “You ever gonna tell me why she moved?”

A part of Ian had always felt as if it wasn’t any of his business - and in truth, it kind of wasn’t. But at the same time, he really wanted to know. He gave Mickey the beat or two of silence that he seemed to need, patiently waiting for him to speak up. 

“You know she went with Aleks’ wife, right?” Ian hummed; he had a vague memory of knowing that much. “Well, she left first - Martha. She uh… was always good to us, like Aleks, but better, y’know…” Mickey waved his hand dismissively before placing it back onto the wheel. “But one day, the cops come knockin’ - take Aleks to the slammer - not the first time. She just… had enough, so… she left.” 

“How old were you?”

“Old enough to be pissed?” Mickey asked with an unamused chuckle. “Mandy was too, for a while, but then she just kind of… stopped, and I think she started admiring her instead. So a few years later, she… left, too,” Mickey said. Ian didn’t say anything. Mickey looked at him as if he was expecting him to speak up, but Ian knew better - he knew that Mickey had more to say; perhaps he even knew it before Mickey knew it. “I was pissed,” Mickey said, staring out onto the road ahead, one of his hands leaving the wheel to scratch the skin above his brow. “For a couple years. Then I uh… then I figured that I was only pissed ‘cause I was jealous, so I made plans to leave, too.” 

“But…?” 

“But Lana got knocked up, and she sure as hell wasn’t leaving - not back then, anyway - so I figured I could be a shitty dad, or I could stay in the family. Either way I’d be like pops, right?” He asked with a sad chuckle. 

“No. Mickey, no. You’re not... you’re not anything like him, okay? Either way you would have chosen, you’d never be like him. Don’t say that,” Ian insisted, his fingers turning white as he gripped at Mickey harder. Mickey didn’t say anything, but the chewing at his lip didn’t let up, and Ian could feel the conversation getting away from him. “He loves you- Yevgeny. You’re a great dad, Mick. He’s a happy kid. Happier than any of us were. He loves you,” he reassured again, and hoped like hell it would take. 

“He loves you too, Fish,” Mickey said quietly after a prolonged silence, and his voice was a soothing balm on Ian’s aching soul. 

“‘Course he does. Everyone loves me,” Ian said confidently, but with a tone he hoped would convey the joke- biting at his cheek as he waited and prayed for Mickey’s smile to come back- and finally, it did. 

“Yeah, okay, Miss America. Calm down. That head gets any bigger, it might just pop.” 

“Hey. Big words from the guy who definitely loves me the most.” 

Mickey chuckled and took Ian’s hand, still rested on his thigh, and gave it a squeeze. “Lucky you’re cute.” 

Ian was happy to finish the ride in a comfortable silence with Mickey’s warm hand in his. Although a part of him did want to open his mouth and ask where they were going, but he knew which answer he was going to get - none; not unlike the first few months that they had known each other, although now Ian was filled with excitement rather than dread. That feeling only grew as he looked down at his finger to see the rings - matching ones on the hand Mickey had on the wheel. 

“You done admiring the rings like a girl?” Mickey asked as a small town grew around them; there was nothing but happiness in his voice, though - a smile stretched out across his face as he pulled the car into a grocery store parking lot. 

“Never,” Ian said, bringing Mickey’s naked hand to his lips and pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “What are we getting?” 

“Groceries. Whatever we want, man,” Mickey said as he pulled the key out of the ignition. 

“Why? We going up into the mountains? Did you rent a cabin?” Ian couldn’t help but ask - mostly to annoy Mickey, as there weren’t many other options considering they found themselves in a tiny, snowy town in the middle of Montana. 

“Christ, man,” Mickey shook his head, and got out of the car. Ian laughed to himself as he followed, tucking his hands into his pockets - partly to keep himself from touching Mickey, or holding his hand, but also because it was really fucking cold - colder than a Chicago winter, not that he knew how that was possible. 

“What are you doing?” Ian asked once they’d neared the front entrance, watching as Mickey deftly plucked the very rings Ian had just been admiring and tucking them securely in the breast pocket of his heavy jacket. 

“You don’t think it’d be an issue f’we show up in here, surrounded by people we don’t know, flying our fag love loud for everyone to see?” Mickey asked as if Ian were suggesting the impossible- suggesting something that they wouldn’t ever be allowed to do. 

“I-,” Ian gaped, feeling himself deflate. Because Mickey was right. It wasn’t smart. And Ian couldn’t help but feel trapped- by everything and everyone that worked so hard to bring him down just for being in love. And what was worse; he knew Mickey was feeling the same way, too. 

“Ay, look at me,” Mickey told him sternly, pausing his move to grab a cart to look squarely into Ian’s eyes. “It don’t matter that they don’t know. We do, and that’s all that matters, right? Me and you.” 

Ian swallowed down his grief and nodded, considering Mickey’s words. Rolling them around in his head and tasting them on his tongue. Still though, it hurt. “Yeah, Mick. Me and you.” 

Mickey gave him another nod in return and pulled the cart from a train of others and made his way inside. “Good, so let’s get some steaks and beer and do this up right.” 

It was still strange to Ian after all the time they’d been together, that by being with Mickey (and he, himself working) that he was able to put things in the cart regardless of price. Long gone were the days of penny pinching and carefully crafted grocery lists. Instead there were careless tosses of bags of chips and steaks so well marbled they looked as if they’d melt in your mouth. Ian was thinking it over as their items were bagged up and the running tally went higher and higher- not listening much until he heard Mickey answering the elderly cashier. 

“Yeah, me’n my buddy here got a cabin. Gonna try to do some lake fishing ‘fore we gotta go back and listen to the missus’ start back up,” he grinned, so unaffected as the man smiled back at him. 

“Oh, I know how that goes,” he said. “Been married myself for going on thirty years. My wife’d have a fit if I tried to skate off for a boy’s trip. Consider yourselves lucky.”

Ian kept a neutral face throughout the exchange - of course he did; it wasn’t as if he blamed Mickey, or didn’t understand why he said what he said; although there was a pinch in his stomach, a feeling of disappointment - a wish. A wish that they could walk up to the cashier, hand in hand - just because. They couldn’t, though - so Ian and Mickey both chuckled politely, and then they hauled their groceries back to the car. 

In comfortable silence, they got back onto the road, but as the minutes passed, Ian found himself turning to look at Mickey; he didn’t know whether it was the fact that they were married now, the thought of this being their honeymoon, or just the reality that Ian was so fucking in love with him - either way, he couldn’t keep himself from bluntly grabbing the bulge in Mickey’s pants. 

Years ago, perhaps Mickey would have cursed at him, been surprised, or yelled that he had to wait until they were in a closed room - now, though, as they were in a quickly moving vehicle that no one would have enough time to look into, and as they knew each other like the back of their own hands - Mickey merely leaned back into the drivers’ seat, and cocked a brow, tearing his eyes away from the road and towards Ian, just for a beat. 

“Y’know they say it ain’t a fishing trip ‘less your buddy sucks your cock on the way up,” Ian said casually. 

“That right?” Mickey asked, looking back to the road. “What kinda buddy I’d be if I said no, then, huh?” 

Ian grinned, pressing a contrasting soft kiss to his husband’s cheek before moving to undo his slacks. 

✦✦✦

“Thought you got a cabin?” Ian asked, as the view outside the car changed from the occasional cabin, to larger houses - houses with barns, and acres of land attached to them. Mickey didn’t say anything, instead he hummed in a way that told Ian that he was asking him to be patient - he would find out soon. 

Which turned out to be true - because it didn’t take more than another ten minutes before the road turned from asphalt to gravel - slimming down, as a large house came into view.

Ian didn’t say anything until he was sure; not until Mickey pulled the car to a stop in front of the house - which really did not do it justice. It wasn’t a house - it was a ranch. A large house the size of their home in Chicago - possibly larger; it was built of wood, the same style as any cabin he had imagined, but about ten times the size. That wasn’t just it, though, because it wasn’t just the house - there were other buildings, too. Ian counted a guest house, a barn, what looked like a stable - and those were only the structures with a roof. There were also paddocks clearly meant for training horses, as well as acres and acres of fenced in land. 

“What is this place?” Ian asked, turning to look at Mickey; immediately, he felt himself soften. Mickey was chewing on the inside of his top lip, clearly nervous - Ian knew him, though; nearly too well - so he knew that Mickey wasn’t nervous because he was wondering whether Ian would like this. No - this particular look meant that he was about to share something deeply personal - meant that he was about to be vulnerable. Ian reached over to take his hand. “Did you rent this place?” Ian asked, to which Mickey immediately shook his head. 

“Own it,” he mumbled, looking out through the windshield, clearly avoiding Ian’s eyes; though when Ian gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, he gave one back. “Iggy owns it on paper - ‘cause Terry couldn’t find out about it. He was digging into all of my shit after Aleks -”

“Hey,” Ian cut him off gently, when he noticed him getting a little too upset. He could tell that Mickey was holding back his tears when he reached for something in the glove compartment. 

“Can you take the stuff in?” He asked, handing Ian a key while throwing a nod to the groceries. “I just want a second.” There was another half of that sentence that he didn’t say - that he didn’t need to say. He didn’t need to tell Ian that he needed a minute to collect himself before he would fill Ian in on whatever was going on inside of his mind. Ian knew. Ian always knew. 

“‘Course,” Ian nodded, pressing a kiss to his temple before getting out of the car and hauling the groceries inside. 

Ian didn’t want to look around too much; didn’t want to take the tour without Mickey. Thankfully, he didn’t have to, because the kitchen was right beyond the entrance; slightly dated appliances, but working nonetheless - and clearly expensive back when they had been purchased. Ian placed their groceries in the fridge, and in the pinewood cabinets, before he turned around, placing his hands onto the counter of the kitchen island, letting himself a brief look - a sweep across the room. 

The walls and the floor matched the cabinets - pinewood; when he looked up, he realized that so did the ceiling - the tall, beam ceiling that Ian couldn’t even have dreamed of standing beneath growing up. 

He made his way around the kitchen island, starting to walk towards the fireplace; he had always liked it when houses had the kitchen and the living space in the same room. Not a lot of places did. For some reason, he found himself carefully stepping around the persian rug, not wanting to step on it with his shoes, as he walked closer to the fire place, his eyes landing on a few photographs, each one covered with a fine layer of dust. He was about to reach for one, but a movement outside the window caught his attention; he watched Mickey in the distance, climb up onto the fence of the round pen, taking a seat. 

Ian sighed; it had been ten minutes. That was all he could give him right now. 

He turned around, and made his way back outside. Mickey didn’t seem to notice him until he reached the pen, climbing up in the same manner, taking a seat right next to him. Mickey didn’t say anything, but Ian thought he could see him relax - just slightly. 

“You been here before?” Ian questioned. Mickey hummed, still staring out into the distance. 

“Once.” 

"Wanna tell me about it?” Ian asked delicately, lilting his voice in such a way that he hoped would convey that he truly did want to know, but that he wouldn’t push, and he’d be just as contented to sit and smell the fresh air with no words said between them; just the warm press of Mickey’s thigh against his and their fingers webbed together- it’s all he needed. But Mickey, to his surprise, nodded and tucked his fingers tighter against Ian’s. 

“I do. But maybe- maybe just not right now, yeah?” Mickey bit are his lip as he looked to Ian, looking every bit as though he were worried that Ian wouldn’t drop it- a habit he’d grown into over the years. When Mickey wouldn’t talk to anyone, Ian could usually make him. But he wouldn’t have done it to Mickey just then. Not when he looked as though he were only hanging on by a thread. 

The mountains off in the distance shimmered a mirage of purples and greys- majestic and powerful in a way that Ian wouldn’t have ever thought himself considering. The last whispers of sunset reached up beyond the peaks, slowly losing their battle against gravity, leaving behind a speckled and twinkling sky that shone through the gaps of heavy snow clouds. It was beautiful, and Ian voiced as much, fully expecting Mickey to call him whatever nonsensical slur that came to mind- but he didn’t. Instead he grinned that grin that Ian loved so much and brought their entwined hands to his lips and left behind a gentle and uncharacteristic kiss; one that held promise and above all else, love. 

His smile didn’t last long, though. It fell from his wind-chapped pink lips as soon as his eyes left Ian’s and fell once more to the sprawling landscape. He was lost in his head, Ian thought. Caught in some loop of a memory that he needed to fight his way out from underneath. He needed to let go and come back to himself at the same time. Ian felt bad for even thinking about it at a time like that- a time so heavy that he could practically feel it settling on his shoulders and bushing him down and down- but, part of being with Mickey, was knowing what Mickey needed and how to get it done. 

“Y’know,” he breathed as he disengaged his hand from Mickey’s, missing the steady warmth that he provided, but he laced his own fingers behind his head anyway, leaving back and crossing his ankles as if he felt as cool as the mountain wind. “You called me your buddy.” 

“Fish,” Mickey sighed, “I already told you-,” 

“I didn’t like it,” Ian snapped in, leaning forward and digging into his own thighs with his own bony elbows. 

“It’s just because of-,” 

“Think you might need reminding that I’m not your fucking buddy, Mikhailo. And I’m not gonna let you call me that like this,” he spat in a mockery of real anger as he pointed to his wedding band, “doesn’t fucking matter. Think you need a reminder of what I am to you.” 

The corners of Mickey's mouth gave a little twitch, just a tiny jolt of recognition, and that’s all the cue Ian needed to keep it going. To take Mickey’s mind far and away from whatever brought him down. 

“Think you need to start by apologizing to me. Think I deserve a little bit more respect than that, don’t you?” He let his breath ghost across Mickey’s ear and his fingers tread easily through his hair- teetering on the edge between soft and sweet and hard and gripping- letting Mickey believe that it could go either way. That his actions were completely dependent upon Mickey’s. It was the way that he took control, but left the power firmly seated in Mickey’s camp. 

“Dunno, do you?” Mickey husked, letting out a shocked little gasp as Ian’s fingers tightened in his hair and pulled- pulled Mickey’s head back against Ian’s shoulder as Ian’s free hand came wiggling its way up to cup itself against the pale expanse of Mickey’s throat. 

“Dunno,” he echoed, his voice coming out raspy and strained, “do you think you deserve to come tonight? Cause I’m not sure that I think you do.”

“S’all the fucking same to me,” Mickey lied through his teeth, despite moving with Ian’s hands, like a ball of clay; willing, soft; trusting. Ian hummed. 

“That so?” Ian asked, voice barely a hum as he brushed his lips against Mickey’s temple, tightening his hold around his throat. “Alright,” he said. Before Mickey could react, he let go of him and he jumped down from the fence, starting to head back to the house. 

Of course, he didn’t make it half way before a weight was on his back, causing him to stumble forwards as pushed and shoved each other, all the while laughing like children. 

Once they made it into the house, though, the light air around them quickly switched into something far more tense, but just as breathtaking. Ian didn’t waste any time, shoving Mickey up against the wall, his forearm under his chin - just as he had done so many years ago. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Ian husked, as his wrist felt Mickey swallow. “You are going to head to wherever the bedroom is, take your fucking clothes off, and you’re not gonna object to a fucking thing I say tonight. You got that?” He asked - the final question not so much of an ‘you got that?’ as a ‘are you okay with this?’ 

“Straight to it, huh?” Mickey asked. 

“What did I just fucking say?”

Mickey’s eyebrow pinched up in that very-Mickey- way, unyielding and cocky and a little bit of a tease, and Ian loved it. Loved the way Mickey always had to just give one last push, which inevitably gave way to a bitten bottom lip and flushed cheeks. Ian could maybe go so far as to call it elegant- in an imperfect sort of way. 

“And if I don’t?” Mickey gave one last challenge, and Ian didn’t have it in him to say anything else, so instead he took a menacing step forward, feeling a thrill of the chase swell up in his chest when Mickey turned on his heel and bolted for the staircase; the heavy sounds of booted feet clattering through the open space and echoing against the walls in a homey, filled sort of way. 

He didn’t follow him, even when his instincts begged him to. He’d given Mickey his expectations, and with them, a certain amount of time that needed to be allowed. So he allowed it. He listened for the ruffling of discarded clothes, the clanging of a belt buckle. Listened for the squeak of a bed and he tried to listen for panted breaths, but only found silence. 

“And for your mouth, you’re gonna wait a little longer,” he hollered up the same trail that Mickey’d just blazed, turning his attention back to the cabin itself. 

It smelled dusty, mostly, but that underlying scent of wood and nails and work mingled it’s way in his nose as well, and with just a little bit of work, Ian was certain they could have this place gleaming. Though, he wasn’t sure why they would. Mickey said it was his, but Ian hadn’t ever heard of anything in Montana, let alone a piece of sprawling property that he, he guessed, sort of-kind of owned half of now. 

He walked back to the hearth, drawn to it when he remembered the framed pictures left there- carefully skirting the intricate rug once more. This time when he grabbed the frame, he had enough time to dust away the layers of disuse, wiping his hand on his trousers afterward, and as soon as he saw the people in the picture, smiling back and looking so in love, it made a little more sense. 

In the picture was a much younger, but very much unmistakable Aleksandr, and another man that Ian had only seen one other photo of- his lover, or rather, the love of his life. The one he’d spent a lifetime hiding. The one that drew a line of understanding between him and Mickey. 

The place must have been theirs, judging by the unmistakable cabin, not to mention the mountains, in the background of the shot. Their arms drew tightly around one another, an unabashed kiss pressed to the side of Aleksandr’s smiling face. Ian couldn’t recall a time seeing him look so alive, so young and so carefree. 

And now it was theirs to fill with the same sort of memories for years to come. 

He set the frame back down gingerly, wiping at a tear that threatened to fall, sending up yet another thanks to the man he only got to know once he was on his deathbed. If Aleks wanted Mickey to have it, he wanted him to have it for the same reasons he must have gotten it in the first place- for love. And so with a renewed determination, he lurched for the staircase and took them two at a time. 

He strode through the hallway as if he’d been there a million times, giving an air of undisputed confidence, though he was really only following the stream of light that spilled out through a partially opened doorway- and it registered somewhere that Mickey did this on purpose, as to not ruin whatever he’d had planned with his bumbling around and checking empty rooms before finding Mickey just as he’d demanded for him to be; laid bare with a knee bent and opened wide and an arm slung casually behind his head as if he’d been waiting there for a month rather than just a few minutes. 

“Took you long enough,” he huffed, raising yet another eyebrow when Ian chose not to say anything at all, but rather leaned his weight against the door frame. “It ain’t gonna suck itself,” Mickey told him, gesturing to the half-hard length resting against his thigh. 

“Shut up,” Ian said in return, his voice coming out much softer than he’d intended. “I’m admiring. You’re... Jesus you’re something else.” It came out in clear awe, and Mickey’s throat bobbed with a thick swallow, his eyes going soft and serene, letting Ian’s eyes drink their fill. 

“Besides,” he shrugged and plucked at imaginary dirt beneath his nails when he was finally able to snap out of it and get back into the proper headspace. “Pretty sure I’m the one that gets to make those kinds of decisions.”  He crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to remain as unaffected as possible by the view in front of him. “That’s not how this works. I tell you to jump, you do what?”

“Ask how high,” Mickey breathed immediately. Surprisingly, Ian had never thought to use those familiar words in this particular context before, but he could tell that Mickey liked it. Could see the way his dick twitched in interest, and the way his eyes glimmered at the words. 

“And?”

”Thank you for acknowledging me,” Mickey finished; Ian hummed as he took another step towards the bed. He stayed silent, watching Mickey as he reached up to pull the tie from around his own neck. 

“Come over here,” Ian said. He watched Mickey nibble at his bottom lip - in a good way - as he got up onto his knees and made his way over to the corner where Ian stood. “Floor. On your knees,” Ian clarified, voice strong - no matter how much it wanted to break; no matter how much he wanted to take the time to drink in the fact that Mickey - _his_ Mikhailo Milkovich - trusted him this much. Not only enough to love him and to be with him, but enough to reveal this part of himself - the part that wanted to be controlled; but also the part that wanted to be loved in return. No matter how much Ian wanted to hold Mickey’s face and let him know how much he loved him - he kept his voice strong, he kept himself in character. Because there would be time for that later. Now, Ian needed to stay like this; because Mickey needed it. And Ian needed Mickey. 

Once he was on his knees in front of Ian, Mickey looked up at him, clearly asking whether it was okay for him to undo his slacks. Bathed in the warm light of the bedroom, Ian thought Mickey had never looked so beautiful. He really needed to pull himself together. 

“Not yet. Back up,” Ian said, using his own knee to gently shove Mickey until he caught his drift and moved back until the back of his head gently bumped the bedpost. Softly - perhaps too tenderly for Mickey’s taste - Ian brought the tie against his throat, keeping it stretched in between his own hands as he added pressure to Mickey’s throat. “If I tie you like this, you gonna be good?” 

Of course - that question was Ian’s way of asking for Mickey’s consent without breaking character. Mickey gave him a gentle nod. 

“Yes,” Mickey said - and that was how Ian knew that he had him. When he stopped saying ‘yeah’ and started saying ‘yes.’ 

Ian hummed, feeling Mickey’s face pressed against the growing bulge inside of his slacks as he bent over him, securing the tie around his neck and the bedpost - making sure that it was tight enough to restrict his breathing slightly, but not enough to be dangerous or too uncomfortable. After so many years of doing this, they had perfected certain things. 

“Go on,” Ian said when Mickey was stuck. “It ain’t gonna suck itself,” he parroted his husband’s words, dragging a mischievous smile from him as he brought his hands up and undid his slacks, pushing them down along with his boxers.

Ian chewed on the inside of his cheek as he watched Mickey looked on with greedy eyes, licking at his lips when Ian pulled at the muscles deep inside, making himself jump a little at Mickey’s attention. 

Ian stayed firmly in place as Mickey leaned forward frowning when the tie around his neck wouldn’t give any further, just shy of being able to reach. He looked up helplessly, the blue of his eyes shrouded in the darkness of his lashes. An echo of a protest rumbled from Mickey’s throat, and Ian cocked an innocently inquisitive eyebrow back down. 

“Something wrong?” He asked sweetly, laying a palm of the top of Mickey’s head and scratching in to his scalp. 

“I can’t- can’t reach,” he said beseechingly, begging with his eyes for Ian to -please- just step forward. But Ian couldn’t be persuaded so easily. 

“Mickey,” Ian tutted, scratching down fractionally harder. “You know I’d do anything for you. All you have to do is ask.” 

“Come he-,”

“All you have to do is ask nicely,” Ian told him in a warning tone. 

“Will you please come here, Ian?” 

Ian felt his grin grow wider when he stepped forward, just enough to grant Mickey access, but not enough so that he would forget his tether. He was rewarded for his graciousness in the form of a hit wet mouth swallowing him down in one quick swoop, leaving him jelly legged and almost too close to the edge of finishing, and what an embarrassing thought that was. 

“Hey, hey, where’s the fire? Take your time.” 

Mickey made an indignant noise, a rumble of vibrations surrounding Ian, but he acquiesced nonetheless, pulling back up and swirling and swiveling his tongue like he was made to do it- long and slow he bobbed his head, and even with the teasingly play, Ian found his knees growing weak and his eyes rolling back. 

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ, knock it off,” he panted, taking a step back and closing his eyes at the sight of Mickey wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking far too smug for his own good. 

Ian took a deep breath after he was sure he wouldn’t ruin the night, and let himself chance a look back down at Mickey, eyes rounded and doe-y, pleading and ready. It was almost too much, but Ian hadn’t ever felt more wanted and needed. 

Carefully, he reached behind Mickey and pulled the tie, giving enough leverage that Mickey could carefully get onto his feet and make his way up, still attached to the post. Once he was standing, Ian took another second to just look; to appreciate. He was allowed to - damn it, they were both allowed to, after all the shit they had fought through to get here. 

Mickey didn’t seem to mind it, either - too worked up, too gone to bother throwing out a comment, or to mock him for it. Instead, he just stayed there, pressed against the post, head leaned back, his lips parted, shiny with his own saliva; pupils blown. His chest was heaving heavily, but Ian’s breathing wasn’t much smoother. 

“Mick,” Ian said, voice that of a slight whimper, and not at all in character as he took a step closer, his hand on the side of Mickey’s face as he caught his lips in between his own. Sometimes he would break character like this, for Mickey’s sake - take a moment to kiss him softly, to tell him he loved him, just to make sure they were all good. But this time, he was doing it for himself. He needed a beat to just… breathe. Appreciate. He was a soft bitch - sue him. “I love you,” he said, his hand drifting over Mickey’s bare side; his waist, his hip, before moving back up to his cheek. 

Mickey mumbled the words back, but then he bit down on Ian’s bottom lip - not in a sexy manner, but in a way that caused him a pinch of real pain. Ian grunted and pulled his head back, to see Mickey’s eyes glimmering with mischief. ‘ _ Enough _ ’ was what that bite said. ‘ _ Let’s play. _ ’ 

“You think that’s a good idea?” Ian asked, switching back into character within the blink of an eye, as he grabbed Mickey’s face, his thumb digging deep into the flesh of his right cheek, the main four fingers into the left, contorting his face. “Hurting me when I’m taking the time to pay attention to you?” 

“The fuck you gon’ do about it?” Mickey asked; Ian struggled not to laugh at the contrast the words and his tone made to the way he was tied, clearly not in a position of control - at least not visibly. Ian scoffed, undoing the tie quickly, and pulling Mickey by his shoulder to turn around, shoving him onto the bed. 

“On your back,” Ian demanded. Mickey flipped over, leaning back against the dusty mountain of pillows as Ian got onto the bed - technically straddling him, a knee on each side of his thighs, but not putting any weight on his body. Mickey was clearly expecting him to tie his hands up, as he brought them to the headboard - it was a go-to thing. Instead Ian twisted the tie, stretching it in between his hands as he looked down at an expectant Mickey. “Hands ain’t your problem today, looks like it’s that mouth you can’t control,” he said, pressing the tie to Mickey’s lips. He didn’t ask him verbally - but he looked him deep in the eyes, a clear question there. Mickey gave him a slight nod and opened his mouth, letting Ian secure the tie as a makeshift gag. “You gonna behave?” Mickey didn’t say anything; he nodded once - and Ian hummed, reaching for the tube of KY they had brought with them. He threw it onto Mickey’s stomach before moving aside, to stand next to the bed. “Go ahead,” he said. 

Mickey sputtered through the tie, muffled sounds of resentment leaking through the silky fabric. Ian our his hands on his hips and waited impatiently, tapping his foot as Mickey stared back blankly. 

“You need me to spell it out for you?” Ian asked once it was clear that Mickey wasn’t going to move, and he got a cocky grin and a nodding head in return. Ian took a breath and told him as sternly as he could muster, “you’re gonna take your fucking fingers and shove ‘em in. You’re gonna work yourself open for me. You can choose how much; you want it to burn, we’ll make it fucking burn. But I’m tired of waiting on you, do get fucking to it ‘fore I make myself come and sleep in a different room.” 

Mickey let out a huff, but Ian knew it was for show. For all of the complaining he did, Ian knew Mickey liked to be the center of his attention; liked the way Ian appraised him and gave him directions, liked when he could tell Ian was getting squirmy and uncomfortable and he especially liked it when Ian couldn’t take it anymore and threw himself forward and on to Mickey. 

If the tie weren’t an obstruction, Mickey’s lip surely would have been bitten white, once he had his fingers coated and one sinking inside of himself. Ian picked up the slack for him, biting at himself so hard that he could almost taste the metallic tang of blood. He felt himself growing harder, if that were possible, straining against the confines of his own skin. 

“That’s it, Mick,” he rasped, knowing that Mickey lives for being told he was doing a good job- an after effect of never having heard it before, Ian supposed. But it was alright, because Ian would appreciate any and everyone little thing he did until he was blue in the face and his lungs were incapable of taking a breath ever again. “Fuck, look at you. You do it so much better than me.” 

Mickey shook his head back and forth quickly, but even so, his finger slid in a little further and his head fell back against his pillow with a muffled groan. 

“Shit. Do another one?” 

He did, giving Ian a perfect birds eye view of every twitch of his body, tantalizing and teasing- and Ian couldn’t help but chuckle thinking that by making Mickey work for it, he’d in turn made himself work for it as well. And he was a patient man, he’d like to think, and... okay, that was a lie. He wasn’t a patient man, ever, and he certainly wasn’t going to start then. 

He disrobed himself as quick as he ever had and made a dive for the bed, landing at Mickey feet and smacking his hand away so that he could do it himself after a quick but generous dollop of KY. Mickey was already almost there, stretched enough for two fingers and then quickly a third, and Ian was all too willing to comply. He watched as his ring finger met its siblings, and licked his lips as Mickey’s cock gave a jump when all three were nestled inside. 

“You think you’re ready for me, Mikhailo?”

Mickey nodded frantically, babbling intelligibly; he closed his eyes for a second, and Ian took the chance to use his free hand to clamp the base of his own length, knowing that Mickey would have made fun of him for it - his eyebrow would have cocked, and he would have gotten that glint of mischief in his eyes. 

Gently, Ian eased his fingers out of Mickey, and then he rolled onto his back, laying next to him. 

“Come on,” Ian said, voice perhaps a pinch too soft for the current game they were playing, as he patted his own thighs, motioning for Mickey to get up. He obeyed immediately, and as soon as Ian could reach, he established a firm grip on his hips, steadying him, as he felt the soft, yet rough feeling of his palms settling onto his chest. He felt the muscles of Mickey’s lower body trying to sink down, but Ian held him in place, dragging an impatient whimper from his throat - the kind of noise that Mickey had stopped holding back years ago. He knew that Ian didn’t care; didn’t judge him. Would never judge him. Despite the whimper, though - Ian could clearly see the way another small drop of precome made its way out onto the head of Mickey’s dick. 

Ian tried - he really did - but he couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and took him in his mouth - just for a second, just enough to clean the small droplets off, as he kept his firm grip on his hips. Mickey let out a noise that sounded as if it were somewhere between a really attractive moan, and the bark of a zebra. How that combination came to be, Ian wasn’t sure. 

“You like this shit,” Ian sighed when he straightened back up, moving his hands down to the flesh of Mickey’s thighs, kneading him roughly. Mickey had his brows furrowed, looking down at him. “God, it’s so fucking hot how you never let anyone else tell you what to do,” Ian said, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the base of Ian’s jaw. “You let me,” he added. “‘Cause you know how much I… fuck,” Ian interuppted himself, when he felt Mickey’s hands tugging on the strands at the back of his head, pressing him deeper into the crook of his neck. 

Ian didn’t need to finish his sentence - didn’t need to say how much he loved, or cared about Mickey - they knew. So instead, Ian leaned back against the headboard, Mickey’s hands falling to his shoulders as he stared at him, blue eyes darker than usual, pupils blown. 

“God, you wanna ride me so bad, huh?” 

“Mhm,” Mickey confirmed, saliva making its way out of his mouth and down his chin as he couldn’t swallow. 

“Go ahead,” Ian said softly, his hands stopping their kneading, instead settling into a familiar position at his hips, gently helping Mickey down onto him. 

Mickey looked down at him through heavy lids, with his teeth gritted against the fabric and soft mewls escaping from behind it. Ian gripped at his hips but didn’t take any control beyond that- letting Mickey set the pace, alternating between hard and fast and slow and deep, making Ian’s head spin and his muscles tense up. It wasn’t long before he felt his belly starting to knot and his toes start to curl in almost painfully. He gripped at Mickey and tried to keep the pace that Mickey set for them, pulsing his fingers for the added sensation. 

“Mick, I’m gonna-,” he gritted, and Mickey nodded his head furiously and picked up the pace, digging his blunt nails in at Ian’s chest. Ian came hard, his torso arching so much that he was almost doing a sit up before he fell back down onto the pillow and panted up at the ceiling. 

Not to be forgotten, Mickey made a strangled noise and swiveled his hips just enough to remind Ian’s over sensitive skin that he was still there, and Ian had just enough presence of mind to keep his fist working until Mickey was spilling over his fingers and down his wrist. He landed with an ‘oof,’ on top of Ian, sticky chest to sticky chest, hot breath ghosting along his collar bones. 

Ian reached up and in-did the knot at the back of Mickey’s head, letting the tie fall gracelessly somewhere near the side of the bed. He let his arms slide across Mickey’s back, holding him tightly against him, his thumb tracing around over-warm skin that rose and fell steadily. 

“Was fucking good,” Mickey mumbled after a while, and Ian couldn’t help but agree. 

“You okay?” Ian felt the need to double check as he continued to run his hand over Mickey’s back; down to the dimples at the small, and up to the muscles surrounding his shoulder blades before moving back down again. 

“Fucking great,” Mickey noised, voice muffled as he nuzzled his way deeper into the crook of Ian’s neck. 

A part of Ian wanted to go all night - since this was their first time since getting married, but the truth was that they had had many of those nights in their past, and they would have many of them in the future. It had been a long day, for so many reasons, and a bigger part of Ian was more than content to just… be. Forever. 

✦✦✦

When Ian awoke to the bright, grey sunlight, he was immediately annoyed - even half asleep. Not because they had forgotten to close the curtains, and the sun was shining right onto his face - but because he was cold. With the covers covering him up to his chin - he was cold; because he was alone - no husband tightly wrapped up in his arms. 

With a huff, Ian gave himself a minute to wake up some more, and then he pulled on a hoodie he had brought, and some pajama pants before he made his way back out into the hallway - down the staircase; he felt somewhat better when he started to feel the scent of coffee spreading throughout the house. Even better when he walked into the kitchen and saw Mickey - out on the wrap-around porch, his back turned to the windows. 

Ian poured himself a cup of coffee before going out to join him. Mickey didn’t react, but Ian knew that could either be a good sign, or a bad one. He was sitting on the porch steps; Ian took a seat one higher; he didn’t say anything. Not at first. Instead he let them just sit there - drink their coffee, and look out over the fields - the slight fog still dragging its feet, a sign of the early hour. 

“‘S right after I found out Lana was having Yev,” Mickey said finally, not turning to look at Ian. “I uh… I was a mess. Igs wasn’t around as much back then, so all I had was Aleks. I didn’t - I didn’t tell him everything, but somehow he knew, I don’t fucking know. So… he… took me to this place, and he told me.” 

A part of Ian wanted to ask ‘ _ told you what? _ ’ but he didn’t want to push. Besides - it wasn’t as if he didn’t know. He would just love to hear a few more details - would love for Mickey to get a few more details off of his chest. 

“He bought it for uh…” Ian said instead; Mickey confirmed it with a distant hum. “Can’t picture him around horses,” he tried to lighten the mood. It helped - thankfully; he did get to hear a chuckle pulled out of Mickey’s throat. 

“Nah, I don’t think he was ever gonna move out here, it’s just… a pretty simple all-in-one life, you know? Stay off the grid. Work, live. Routine.”

“Safety,” Ian couldn’t help but add, softly. 

“Mmm,” Mickey agreed again, taking a steaming sip from his mug. 

“Saw the pictures on the mantle. They looked... really happy.” Ian felt awkward, as if he were talking about something he shouldn’t- sticking his nose on where Mickey wouldn’t want it or appreciate it. But he didn’t seem to mind at the end; licking off the leftovers from his top lip and giving Ian a smile. 

“They were. Really happy. When they were here anyway. S’why... s’why he brought me here, when Svet... said he always made his best decisions when he was here. Said the air gave him a clear head, but,” Mickey chuckled, “I’m thinking that’s just what happens when you get good dick.” 

Ian mimicked his laugh and bumped Mickey’s shoulder with his knee. “No dick better have been involved last time you were here,” he teased, and regretted it as soon as it left his tongue as Mickey’s smile fell from his lips. 

“Nah. There... wasn’t. Thought I’d probably never get to... be with anyone. Not really. S’part of...” he fell silent for a moment, and Ian reached forward to lay a comforting hand on Mickey’s shoulder, sighing with relief when Mickey laid his own hand on top of Ian’s. “It’s part of the reason I went back. Thought I couldn’t be happy with someone, so, I guess, I could at least have the kid. Thought at least I wouldn’t have to be alone forever if I had a kid. So...” 

“Hey, it’s okay, Mick. You’re not alone now. And you’ve got him. I’m glad you made the choice you did. It was the right one.” 

Mickey drew in a ragged breath and clutches at Ian’s hand a little harder, turning his cheek so that it could lay atop the twined fingers. 

“Yeah. It was.”


	28. twenty eight

“Fuck,” Mickey cursed headily into Ian’s mouth, the sound sending another twitch to the bulge in his slacks as his husband held onto the back of the couch, rocking down against him.

It was late; the house was dark, only lit by the faint, flickering light of the thirteen inch zenith television. 

Ian hummed, their teeth clashing together as he impatiently pulled down Mickey’s suspenders, tugging at his shirt to get it out of his slacks. 

“Upstairs?” He asked, Mickey swallowing the sound, right before he shook his head. 

“Right fucking here,” he said, frantically reaching in between them to pull Ian’s zipper down before going to his own. Ian broke the kiss to move his mouth down to Mickey’s jawline, his hands grabbing onto his ass, pulling him closer, pushing him down. “Finally fucking alone for once, man,” Mickey said, out of breath as Ian sucked a mark onto his pale skin. “Want you to fuck me right fucking here,” he repeated. 

“Whatever you want, Mick,” Ian breathed, picking his head back up to look at him. “Fuck, you know I’ll give you anything,” he said, barely giving himself enough time to finish the sentence before he caught Mickey’s lips back in between his own. 

After nearly twelve years together - five of those spent as husbands, a lot of things had changed. Their relationship was not one of them. If it was even possible, Ian would say that he loved Mickey more now than he had loved him a few years ago; nothing faded, nothing grew boring, or ordinary. They fought, and they screamed, and they argued, and they disagreed. They laughed and they joked and they loved. They had physical fights with sex incorporated, and they fucked, and they made love. They were violent and they were soft. They did everything - they had everything. In fact, at times, Ian thought that he could feel his own love for Mickey physically; that he could feel how strong and powerful it was, wanting to tear his chest apart in the best way. 

With frantic hands, they stripped each other down to their boxers, and Ian laid Mickey down on the couch, covering his body with his own as he pressed biting, deep kisses to his neck and jawline. He felt Mickey’s hand on the back of his neck; not tugging at his hair, just keeping him close. 

“I love you,” Ian couldn’t help but breathe as he picked his head up, his hand reaching down in between them, two fingers hooking the waistband of Mickey’s boxers. 

“Fucking love you,” Mickey said back. Ian moved in for a kiss, their noses touching, lips mockingly close right as they were interrupted by the telephone, it’s sound equal to a villainous laugh as it echoed through the dark house. “Fuck it,” Mickey said, closing the distance in between them. Ian kissed him back for a brief moment before he let out a regretful sigh, and pulled himself up to stand. 

“Could be Yevy,” he said, as he walked over to the phone. 

“Fuck him, he’s fifteen, he can look after himself,” Mickey yelled, and Ian struggled not to grin at the needy tone of his voice. He would never say anything like that in another situation. 

“Shouldn’t have to!” Ian called back, right before he picked up the phone. “Ian Gallagher.”

“ _Oh thank fuck_ ,” came the voice on the other end, and Ian’s eyebrows crinkled in response. It wasn’t an unfamiliar voice, in fact, he’d venture to say he knew it second best in the world, but it was an odd greeting to be sure. 

“Hello to you, too, son?” He questioned, fighting through a chuckle. Mickey looked up from his place on the couch and scrunched his nose, shaking his head- kid’s always got a way of interrupting, Ian could hear Mickey saying. 

“ _Don’ttellPopsbutI’minthecan,_ ” Yevgeny said, speaking entirely too fast to be understood, and Ian was only confused more. 

“You’re where? What? You okay, man?” Ian was starting to grow impatient, but only because a knot was forming in his stomach, as it often did when his kid was involved- who knew being entirely responsible for someone’s growing up well and good could have so much pressure attached? 

“ _I said, Dad, Don’t fucking tell Pops, but I’m in the fucking can._ ” 

Ian’s stomach dropped down so low that it was a wonder it didn’t fall out and splatter against the floor. His veins went icy with worry and sadness and fear. Pictures of his sweet little baby in prison stripes flashed through his mind. Visions of Yevgeny, still only so little, crying and scared and cold and hungry. 

And then he got mad. It switched from icy cold to burning hot. Visions went from Yevgeny small and sad, to Yevgeny now as tall as him- taller than Mickey- with Ian’s hands around his neck and wringing him out to dry. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, Yevgeny? Fuck you do?!” He barked into the line, and had to fight against punching a hole in the wall when Yevgeny’s sarcastic sigh sounded in his ear. He was gonna mangle that kid. That’s all there was to it. 

Mickey was at his side before Yevgeny had the chance to speak, reaching for the phone with worried eyes and grabbing fingers, but Ian leaned away and swatted at him- there wasn’t a chance in hell that he wasn’t gonna ‘tell Pops,’ but he also wanted to hear what he had to say, because as mad as he was, he was the peacemaker. 

“ _Knocked off a store. It’s not a big de-,_ ”

“Knocked off a fucking store!” Ian bellowed, seeing red. Well, apparently no peace would be made that night. Mickey, who’s face morphed with fury, grabbed the receiver and took one deep breath before having a go at yelling himself. 

“You did fucking what, Yevgeny Milkovich?! I know I didn’t fucking hear that right!” He yelled, only waiting a moment before he continued. “No, your dad’s not a fucking rat, I just so happen to live here too, you fucking idiot.”

Ian didn’t like talking to their child that way. It didn’t seem... normal. Seemed overly cruel to hear that coming from your father. But, well, apparently they had in fact raised an idiot. 

Mickey threw a few more curse words into the phone, and then he punched it back onto the wall mount with enough force that Ian made a mental nose to check back later in order to make sure the device was still working. Ian watched Mickey to figure out what mood he was in - angry, of course, but Mickey was a lot more complicated than that. So Ian stood back for a few seconds, watching as his husband looked at the floor, and then scratched the skin above his eyebrow; finally, he looked up and bumped the tip of his nose, throwing his head towards the living room. 

“Come on, man. Let’s finish.” 

“Finish what? We didn’t start,” Ian pointed out. 

“Well, you better get to it, then,” Mickey said with a chuckle - a chuckle that held way too much bitterness to be genuine. He started walking back, and Ian sighed. 

“I’m not fucking you while our kid’s in jail - Mick, letting him sit and stew isn’t gonna fix anything,” he said. Because he knew that that was what this was about. 

“Then what the fuck you wanna do?!” Mickey raised his voice, turning around as he threw his arms out to the side. “You want us to run out and rescue him like he’s some fair fucking maiden? He did this to himself.” 

“Mickey...” Ian sighed, taking the few steps across the floor until he reached Mickey - who crossed his arms, raising his brows as he waited. “You wanna be the kind of parents who make him feel like we don’t care?” 

“Oh, fuck off - he knows we care - “

“Does he?” Ian asked. “Would he? Would you?” He continued. “Sitting in a jail cell, waiting for your parents to come, watching the hours pass?” At that Mickey rolled his eyes - which in turn caused Ian to do the same. “Mick, I’m not saying we don’t punish him. Okay? We ground him, tell him he can’t see his friends, we take away his comic books, take away the guitars - Mick, we… we can’t take away  _ us _ .” 

“Fuck,” Mickey sighed, scrubbing at his face as if it had personally offended him. “Fine. Get your shoes on.”

✦✦✦

There were some benefits, Ian thought, to their choice in career. They lived comfortably. They’d never go hungry. Yevgeny would never want for anything. 

And they had the cops in their back pocket. 

“Hey Mickey. Ian,” the officer at the front desk, Markovich, smiled apologetically when they came through the front door of the jail. “Yev’s in back. I’ll go grab him.” 

“Wait,” Mickey shook his head. “Tell me what he did, Tony.” 

Markovich sighed and leaned back in his chair, no doubt coming up with a way to tell the story without being disparaging. He may have been a cop, but Mickey was Mickey, and he wasn’t to be trifled with. Not even when he was picking his soon-to-be felon son from a holding cell in the middle of the night. 

The room was stifling, even though it was made of concrete. The sterile white walls did little to still Ian’s quaking nerves- he’s done the whole prison thing- and had been picked up a time or two over the years, only spending an hour or two inside before Mickey came to get him (a hazard of the job). He knew the feeling of sitting and tapping you fingers against your thigh, wishing and hoping that you were anywhere else. He hated that his son had to go through it, too. 

“He... held up the Kash N Grab. Only got a few bucks, but... We had to bring him in. I’m sorry, Mickey. Honest,” Markovich told him sincerely, palms up and face looking overly contrite. Mickey waved him off- he knew that they had limits, and it wasn’t their fault that Yevgeny royally fucked up. They were more than cutting him a break by sending him home. It was more than they could ask for, really, even if Mickey paid for their new break room and maybe a squad car or two. 

“Let ya go back there. Wanna see that fucking asshole behind bars,” Mickey demanded- voice sounding thick with anger. 

“Mick-,” Ian tried, laying a hand on his tense shoulder, even as Mickey shook him off. 

“No. Kid needs to see us see him in there. I want him to look in my eyes and see the disappointment.” 

“He’s just a kid-,” Ian tried again, inflaming the rage in Mickey’s face, sending it to a deep, molten purple and pushing the vein in his forehead out and pulsing. 

“Are you fucking stupid, too? You want him to wind up in the clink for real, man? You liked it so much you want our kid to take a nice long vacation there, too? Fuck you acting like I’m being some bitch about this? You want him to-,” he swallowed and cleared his throat. “You want him to end up like us? I don’t.” 

And... Ian didn’t. Really, he didn’t. Mickey was right. He was always too lenient when it came to Yevgeny, and maybe... maybe that was why he was in there. Maybe it was all Ian’s fault. 

With that somber theory in mind, he did his best to keep his face neutral as he followed Tony and Mickey down the hallway, and back to the holding cell. As soon as Ian saw him - saw his son, sitting there, so far from the little boy he had met all of those years ago - he could feel his blood start to boil while his heart broke. The worst part was that he wasn’t even sure that he was angry with Yevgeny - annoyed, upset, sure. Angry? Ian tried to feel that emotion towards the boy who sat there, looking so small, his lanky frame drowning in the brown leather jacket; dark, honey blonde strands of hair falling over his face as he looked at his dads, clearly trying to feel them out. 

Ian couldn’t. Couldn’t be angry - not with Yevgeny. Instead he felt angry with himself - with Mickey, with Svetlana, even somewhat with Iggy - the people who were closest to him, the people who were supposed to keep him safe - they had failed him. Hadn’t they? This was proof. Was it not? 

“It’s your lucky day,” Tony sighed as he unlocked the cell, and gave Yevgeny a nod. Yevgeny stood up, giving his head a shake to move the hair out of his face as he walked out of the cell. Ian wanted to hug him - he didn’t though. Perhaps Mickey was right. Perhaps this was Ian’s fault - perhap the softness, and the leniency he had granted him over the years - perhaps it hadn’t helped him. Perhaps it had just made him… this. 

Mickey had to sign some papers - since he was Yevgeny’s legal guardian and Ian was not - and then they were allowed to leave. All three of them stayed silent as they walked out onto the street, and got into the car. Ian got into the passenger seat, Mickey into the drivers’ - leaving Yevgeny alone in the back. It wasn’t unusual - they didn’t have ‘their own’ seats in the car like some families did. Although Ian hoped - although perhaps it was petty - that Yevgeny could feel the chill in the air as Mickey got the car back onto the road. 

✦✦✦

“Bed,” Mickey said when they entered the front door. It was the first word to leave any of them since picking him up. 

“I’m not tired,” Yevgeny replied. 

“We are. Go to bed,” Ian said. He could tell that Yevgeny flinched - just somewhat - at the sternness of his voice. It wasn’t incredibly stern - but Ian tended to have a very soft way of speaking, especially to his son. Yevgeny looked at them both, and then - with a slight shrug - he turned, and made his way towards his room. Ian looked after him for a moment before he turned to Mickey, the two exchanging a look of exhaustion. 

Mickey sighed, and then walked over until his forehead hit Ian’s collarbone. Ian echoed his sigh, laying a limp arm over his shoulders. 

“The fuck are we gonna do with him?” Mickey asked, voice slightly muffled. Ian hummed - the sound clearly a replacement for a verbal ‘ _ I don’t know _ ’. He was thankful that it was late and they could send him to bed to buy themselves a few hours to talk about what exactly would be the appropriate punishment, but as of right now, Ian just wanted to go to bed as well. 

The past few weeks had been hectic - either Yevgeny had been in the house, or one of them had had to leave to do something at the diner. He had been looking forward to a night spent with Mickey, had wanted to have him close. Not even in a sexual way - hell, he would have been happy to grab a blanket, put on pajamas and bicker over what to watch on the television. That was clearly out the window, though. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Ian promised. 

Ian didn’t sleep much that night, and Mickey didn’t either. His breath never mellowed out and his body never went pliant and warm the way Ian always loved. Ian wrapped himself around him, settling his stomach against Mickey’s back and drew mindless circles with his thumb across Mickey’s goose-bumped skin until the misty grey tendrils of morning illuminated the room. 

Coffee was a life line on any given day, really, and Ian could always count on Mickey having several cups in the morning. That morning, however, more than one pot would need to be made between the two of them, and even then, Ian assumed it probably wouldn’t do much to battle the pure, bone deep exhaustion that he felt. 

“I’m gonna go wake his ass up,” Mickey grumbled somewhere between his third and fourth cup- the darkness beneath his eyes not even pretending to lighten up. “No reason he gets to sleep like a fucking baby while we’re down here miserable because of him.” 

“Mick-,” Ian sighed, feeling as if that were the only word he’d said in days, though he’d come to realize that maybe he was a little too soft, and look where it has gotten them. “Maybe you should take a bucket of ice water. Really wake him up.” Mickey grinned, and he did too, though they both knew it wouldn’t be taken that far. 

Yevgeny sat at the small table that was embedded in the breakfast nook, fingers bouncing against the wooden surface, glaring dagger at both Ian and Mickey, who sat across from him with folded arms and matching scowls. It was best to be a united front, and if the easiest way to achieve that was with hateful looks and closed off body language, then so be it. 

“I just don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing,” Mickey bit after several long, heavy moments. “I didn’t raise you to be this stupid, Yevgeny.” 

“Oh that’s rich, Pops,” Yevgeny scoffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his own arms. 

“Fuck you talking about?” 

“You think I don’t know what you do? Both of you,” he spat, granting Mickey a moment of reprieve with his glare, only to settle it on Ian. “You and dad ain’t squeaky clean either. And look what it got you,” Yevgeny droned, gesturing around at their home- which, arguably, he had a point. But Ian wasn’t willing to point that out. 

“You’re even dumber than I thought,” Mickey scoffed right back. 

“Excuse me?” Yevgeny raised his voice and his eyebrows in tandem, leaning forward once again as if he hadn’t heard Mickey properly. 

“You already got the money, numb nuts,” Mickey raised his voice right back. “I already did the hard work for you! Me and your dad,” he amended. “Now all’s you gotta do is go the fuck to school and reap the benefits!” 

“Well maybe I want to make my own money!” Yevgeny yelled, slapping a hand against the table hard enough to slosh a bit of Ian’s coffee from his mug. 

“So go the fuck to school, like I said! Be a doctor, or, or a teacher! Something that’s not... this, Yevgeny! Jesus Christ! You think stealing is making your own money? Guess the fuck what, it ain’t!” 

“You don’t understand,” Yevgeny growled, and Ian grabbed on tightly to Mickey’s arm when he felt him coming up out of his chair. 

“No, we don’t, Yevy,” Ian broke in, digging his nails in to keep Mickey still. “But apparently you don’t either. Everything we’ve got is yours when we kick off. You don’t have to get your hands dirty.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” Yevgeny said, which sent both Ian and Mickey’s eyebrows as far up on their foreheads as they would go. 

“The fuck it’s not,” Mickey nearly laughed. Ian didn’t blame him. The thought of Yevgeny doing something dangerous or illegal and the two of them saying ‘that’s not our choice to make’ was one of the funniest jokes Ian had ever heard. As. Fucking. If. 

“Why now?” Ian asked. Yevgeny gave him a look that he had only mastered since entering his teenage years - a look that said ‘Huh? I’m too far up my own ass to listen to you right now.’ 

“Yevgeny,” Mickey warned when Yevgeny went too long without answering. He looked in between the two of them, before rolling his eyes. 

“You know what, babe?” Ian asked, as he turned to Mickey - the use of the nickname simply a way to annoy their son; his peripheral vision caught another eyeroll. “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to us - he shouldn’t have to,” Ian shrugged. “I’m sure he had his reasons.” 

“Thank you!” Yevgeny said, exasperated. 

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, clearly picking up what Ian was laying down. “You’re right. He can tell Lana instead, that’s a better idea,” Mickey nodded. 

“I’ll call her,” Ian said, getting up to head over to the phone, though only making it a few steps away from the breakfast nook before Yevgeny’s voice stopped him. 

“Wait no, don’t call mom!” 

“Why not?” Ian asked, as he turned back around, feigning innocence. Svetlana was a wonderful mother - in some ways, probably a better parent than Ian or Mickey would ever be. But when it came to Yevgeny getting in trouble? She was Russian. Like - Russian Russian. 

“Fuck off, you know why,” Yevgeny sighed. 

“Don’t fucking curse,” Mickey scolded.

“She’s gonna kick my ass,” Yevgeny defended, uncaring about his dirty mouth- another trait picked up by his father. “Uncle Ig has to literally pull her off of me last month when I got in that fight. She’s fucking crazy, man!” 

“Then you better start talking, Yev. You got two options. Either tell me and Pops what’s going on with you, or we let your mom beat it out of you. Your choice. Seems pretty simple to me.” Ian stood behind Mickey with a calming hand on his shoulder, frowning at the hard lines of tension he found beneath his skin.

“Can I at least have a smoke?” Yevgeny asked, leaning forward on the table to rub at his temples. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Seriously, Yevgeny?” 

“Fine. Christ. I’m... I’m going steady with Sasha...” Yevgeny murmured, glaring at the tabletop like he had a personal vendetta against it. 

“What was that, mumbles?” Mickey demanded, growing increasingly frustrated, and Ian kneaded his muscles a little firmer. 

“I said, ‘I’m going steady with Sasha,’” Yevgeny bellowed with a huff. 

“Sasha?” Ian asked. “Ivan’s little girl?” 

“She’s not little, dad. God,” Yevgeny rolled his eyes. “But yeah, Ivan’s her dad.” 

“Okay...” Ian said as he shook his head. “And you had to knock off a store because...? Oh fuck. Tell me she’s not knocked up, Yevgeny.” Panic raced through Ian’s veins and his vision tunneled into a solitary pinprick of light- he felt as if he were going to pass out, or maybe pass away. Flashes of Yevgeny growing up bounced through his head, and if Yevgeny were about to have a baby of his own, at such a young age- Ian couldn’t handle it. Maybe it was selfish, but beyond Yevgeny not being ready to be a parent - the idea of Ian and Mickey becoming grandparents before the age of forty? The idea made Ian’s ears ring. 

“No, no!” Yevgeny waved him off, and Ian thought he noticed Mickey’s body move with his own as they each let out a deep breath and relaxed. 

“Then what?” Mickey asked, voice tense. 

“I…” Yevgeny stopped himself with a hum, as if he was annoyed with himself. He rolled his eyes, looking out the window for a beat before settling his eyes back onto his dads. “I don’t think he likes me.” 

“Who?” Ian asked. 

“Ivan.” 

“Who gives a shit?” Mickey asked. 

“I do,” Yevgeny sighed, exasperated. “I want Sasha’s family to like me - I… I love her, okay?” 

Ian crossed his arms, turning to look at Mickey, noting that he held the same stance, hands gripping onto his own biceps as they held eye contact. Ian noticed the slight raise in Mickey’s brow - knew that it was him saying ‘ _ Love, huh? He’s fifteen. _ ’ To which the edge of Ian’s mouth twitched upwards, just barely. ‘ _ It’s not gonna last, but we can’t tell him that. Can’t take it away from him. _ ’ 

“Can you stop the telepathic conversations? It’s fucking annoying as shit,” Yevgeny complained. 

“What, you don’t have ‘em with your girl?” Mickey jabbed verbally, and earned himself an actual jab to the ribs from Ian. Mickey winced and threw a glare at Ian, but turned his attention back to Yevgeny. “Look, Sasha’s his little girl. ‘Course he’s not gonna like you.” 

“Well I want him to!” Yevgeny yelled, exasperated and growing just as red as Mickey. “She wants us to get along, so...” 

“How ‘bout you worry about getting along with your actual dads, huh?” Mickey laughed humorlessly, and Yevgeny gave him a flat look. “Fine. Ivan’s giving you shit? I’ll straighten him out.” 

“No! Jesus, what’s wrong with you, Pops? Dad, help me out here. Please.” 

Ian chewed on his lip, looking between his irritated son and his irate husband, neither looking like they had a clear thinking brain cell between them. Neither looking like this was a conversation they wanted to have. Both looking like they needed him desperately to come up with a solution. 

“We’ll have Ivan and his family over for dinner,” he concluded. “We’ll sort this shit out. Come up with some rules for the two of you.” 

“What? No!” Yevgeny protested again, and if Ian ever had to hear him say, ‘No,’ again, he was going to put a hole in the wall. 

“It’s either that or me and your pops beat the shit out of him behind the diner and make sure he and his family pack up and leave the state. Take your pick, you ungrateful asshole.” So, maybe Ian needed to get himself under control. He should have been better at maintaining his composure, but it turns out that nothing pisses you off more than your defiant teenager. Who would have guessed? 

“Whatever. God. Fine.” 

“And don’t think I’m not gonna have words with him- he knew the two’a you were sneaking around and didn’t tell me. That don’t sit right,” Mickey sneered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, locking into a staring standoff with Yevgeny. 

Odds were said standoff only lasted for thirty seconds, but to Ian, it seemed like a lifetime - the air in the kitchen thick. Mickey won, though - because of course he did; he wasn’t nearly as weak of a parent as Ian was. Yevgeny folded, and rolled his eyes, standing up from the bench in the breakfast nook. 

“I’m going upstairs,” he huffed. 

“Great,” Mickey said, opening the slender door of the cleaning closet, quickly fishing out a folded up moving box. “I’ll go with you, you can help me pack up all the shit that brings you joy.” 

✦✦✦

A few days later, Mickey was taking care of some heavy business down by the abandoned bridge, while Ian was calling Ivan into the office. It was his responsibility to invite the family over - which wasn’t all that odd, considering the fact that for all of Mickey’s acting chops, in between the two of them, Ian was the one that people tended to be drawn to. So usually, any semi-pleasant business fell onto his shoulders. 

The knock on the door was perfectly timed to when Ian had asked him to arrive, and he called him in, as he leaned back in the old leather chair, braiding his fingers together, letting them rest on his clothed abdomen. 

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Ivan said, as he stepped inside. He was probably a decade and a half older than Ian, and three times as heavy - some of it fat, but a decent amount of muscle as well; yet knew exactly how to act around his bosses. Ian had to admit - it had taken him a while to get used to being the top dog - one of them, at least. 

“Take a seat,” Ian motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk. Ian closed the door behind himself, and sat down. Ian waited a beat - perhaps a way to establish control. 

He sat silently, all fingers save for the pointers still tucked in together- the pointers tapping against his lips as he regarded Ivan with a cool disinterest. Ivan day in his chair uncomfortably, shifting with unrest, trying to look as if he weren’t nervous. The ability to evoke fear in others wasn’t something that Ian had ever seen himself grow used to, but he had to admit- it came with a certain feeling of being seen that growing up as a middle child hadn’t allowed. 

“Anything you wanna tell me, Ivan?” Ian asked after a long, quiet moment. 

“Not... that I can think of?” 

“Hmm. Okay, then. I guess I’ll do the talking,” Ian said, leaving forward against the heavy wooden desk. “Were you aware that my son was arrested last Friday?” 

Ivan shifted again, the leather of it squeaking out in protest, but he didn’t say anything. 

“Mikhailo and I had to go pick him up. Apparently he robbed a store... Horrible to see your son that way- behind bars. You’re lucky. You don’t have any sons, am I right about that?” 

“Yes, si-,”

“But you do have daughters. Two of them, if I’m remembering correctly.” 

“Yes, but-,” 

“Imagine our surprise when we haul our son home, only to find out that he robbed a store to impress his girlfriend’s father.” 

“Ian-,”

“And imagine my even greater surprise when I find out that my son thought he had to rob a fucking store to impress his girlfriend’s father, because said father doesn’t fucking like my son.” 

“Please-,” 

“But you know what the worst of it was, Ivan? Can you take a wild guess? Go on, I want to hear it.” 

Ivan looked like he might have a heart attack right there in Ian’s office. And while he didn’t want any harm to come to anyone, as ironic as that sounded, he couldn’t help but take pleasure in Ivan’s worried face- that asshole was the reason Yevgeny made a fool of himself. 

“I didn’t know he would do something like that,” Ivan finally said with a wavering voice. 

“You didn’t think maybe, just fucking maybe, you shouldn’t have come to me or Mikhailo with this? Thought you should just sit on this information, and not only that, but terrorize my fucking kid? How fucking stupid are you?”

“I…” Ivan started, but didn’t continue. Ian stayed silent, his chin raised, jaw locked. Over the years he had come to the conclusion that interrupting and pushing the people below him was not the more effective way to make them fear him. A better way was to stay silent, stare them down, and wait. Make them sweat. “I apologize, sir. I made an error.” Ian hummed, as if he was considering whether the words were good enough or not. 

“What should you have done differently? Walk me through it.” 

“Well, sir… for starters, I wish I would have spoken to you and Mikhailo about what was going on. I also wish that I would have treated Yevgeny with a little more respect.”

“A little?” Ian asked, voice sharp. 

“A lot,” Ivan corrected. “I should have treated Yevgeny with much more respect,” he nodded, as if agreeing with his own words. “With that in mind, I know that you and Mikhailo don’t take kindly to mistakes - and I respect you for that,” he continued, then. Ian pretended that he didn’t see through the blatant brown nosing. “So I understand that I will not go unpunished.” 

Ian watched as Ivan swallowed, most likely picturing himself wrapped up in a tarp and chained, thrown into the ocean. Ian and Mickey would never do that - the family used to be run that way, but nowadays, they only got rid of the ones truly in their way. Mostly, at least. No one below them knew that, though - no one ever talked about what they did for the family, so for all Ivan knew, Ian could have sent out ten capos on hits before his morning coffee. 

“You’re invited to dinner,” Ian said. “Bring your wife. Your daughters.” 

“I… what?” Ivan questioned. “You’re not gonna punish me?” 

“Have you met Mikhailo?” Ian asked. This dinner was going to be punishment enough. 

✦✦✦

“Look at him, Mick,” Ian said, laying his chin on Mickey’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist. A week later had them standing outside of Yevgeny’s bedroom, watching as he tried to smooth down his unruly hair with no effect. “He looks so cute.” 

Yevgeny glared at him through the hanging mirror’s reflection, sending a baleful middle finger up behind himself. 

“Takes after his old man,” Mickey joined in the mockery, laying his hands flat over Ian’s. Yevgeny hated when they teased him. Hated when they were overly lovey with each other. Hated that he was a teenager and had to attend the dinner with his girlfriend and her parents. So, naturally, Ian had taken to playing it up, and Mickey had been a willing accomplice. “Though if he flips you off again, I’m’a break that finger off and shove it up his fuckin’ schnoz.” 

“Will you two get out? I’m trying to get ready for your stupid dinner party,” Yevgeny grumbled as he finally gave up combing through his hair. 

“Fuck you trying to look like a greaser for, kid? You know you grew up on the wrong side of the tracks for that shit,” Mickey grumbled right back. 

“Aw, Mick. Leave ‘im alone. Obviously it’s what  _ Sasha _ likes,” Ian grinned and kissed at the side of Mickey’s neck before finally pulling away. 

“Oh, well if it’s what  _ Sasha _ likes, then by all means. Stain up all the furniture with that shoe polish.” Mickey rolled his eyes at precisely the same time that Yevgeny did. 

“Can you two, like, play it cool tonight? Please. I’m begging you.” 

“And we’re begging you not to get yourself locked up. So let’s say we play it by ear,” Ian told him, and turned to head back down to the kitchen to check on their meal. “You’re just lucky your mom’s not on the guest list,” he called behind himself.

A Ukrainian feast sat atop the stove and in the oven. Ian had always enjoyed cooking, even before his diner days- but learning to cook the food that Mickey wanted cooked had been a challenge. He didn’t season it right or he burnt it or under cooked it, or a million other things that Mickey hadn’t approved of. But over the years, and with a heavy handed guidance from Mickey himself, Ian learned, and he did it well. So well, in fact, that Mickey let him take the lead in preparing family meals, with little to no complaining about what he made. He counted it as a win. 

Granted, looking over a feast such as the one he was standing in front of right now usually meant that the night ahead would be at least somewhat enjoyable - he wasn’t so sure that that was the case tonight. He absolutely believed that they had made the right decision, inviting the Ponomarenko family over; it was a chance to see who the girl was who had their son wrapped around her finger - but it was also a way to intimidate Ivan, of course. Since they were his bosses, it was always ‘their house, their rules’ but now, they would actually be within their personal home, so it would be their house, their rules - times two. Ian knew Mickey would find numerous ways to intimidate him, and threaten him. Ian had decided he wouldn’t stop him. Ivan deserved it. 

“Food done?” Mickey asked, walking into the kitchen, and heading for the fridge, cracking open two bottles of beer and handing one over to Ian. 

“Few minutes,” Ian said, accepting the drink. “Yev?” At that, Mickey huffed, leaning back against the island counter, opposite of Ian, who stayed in a similar, relaxed stance against the counter next to the stove. 

“Fixing his hair. Again. Kid cares too much about his fucking hair.”

“He’s clearly your son,” Ian commented. He anticipated the punch to his stomach and caught Mickey’s wrist before it could meet his abdomen. 

“Dick,” Mickey grunted, but Ian just grinned down at him, nodding as he kept his beer in his hand, wrapping his arm around Mickey’s neck. “Don’t even know why I fucking married your dumbass,” he continued, and Ian hummed. 

“Yeah. Really the worst decision you’ve ever made,” he agreed, mockingly. Mickey nodded, the two keeping serious looks on their faces for a beat before breaking, grinning into a kiss - the kind of kiss that made Ian’s insides calm down in the best way, even after so many years. Like the sea after a storm. 

“Can you stop making out?” Yevgeny’s voice interrupted them, from the doorway. Ian let go of Mickey with a sigh. “I saw the car through the window, they’re here.”

“Little creepy there, bud?” Ian couldn’t help but point out, which earned him another middle finger. “Well go on, son. Go let the future Mrs. Milkovich in.” 

“Oh my god,” Yevgeny groaned, throwing his head back just as he’d always done, but he went for the door anyhow, even if he was stomping along. 

“Make sure you take their jackets!” Mickey called after him, laughing at the glare that found him just as Yevgeny rounded the corner. 

“This might be more fun than we anticipated,” Ian grinned and gave Mickey one last kiss before moving to take the dishes to the dining room. 

“Thank you, Yevgeny,” Ian heard from the foyer, and he smiled wolfishly at Ivan’s overly kind tone. 

Dinner was tense. No one spoke for long enough for it to become uncomfortable. Just the delicate sounds of cutlery on ceramic, squeaky and scratchy and horrible. Yevgeny sat mostly with his eyes boring into his kielbasa, cutting with too much force and energy, and after watching him struggle for so long, Ian couldn’t help but laugh. 

He tossed his head back and clutched at his stomach, even as everyone else watched him in mild confusion- and then, blessedly, Mickey started laughing too, just as boisterously as Ian. Both of them stared at one another, the red in their faces and the gasps for air setting the other off in a fresh round. Mickey was everything Ian wanted- he could always count on him to make everything better. Always. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Ian wheezed. “This is so fucking awkward. Shit- sorry, ladies. I’m not usually around women,” he chuckled, catching his foul mouth, even if Ivan’s wife was in no position to object to his mannerisms. 

“Smooth, man,” Mickey grinned across the table, and Ian grinned back. 

“Okay, okay. So Sasha,” he he tried to keep his laughter from bubbling back up as two pairs of horrified teenage eyes landed on him. “Getting any information from Yevgeny is impossible. How long have you two been going together?” 

“I, um,” she swallowed and wiped at her mouth primly. “A few months now, Mister Milkovich.” 

“Last name’s actually Gallagher. But how ‘bout you just call me Ian?” 

She opened her mouth and closed it again, taking a chance to glance at Yevgeny, who shrugged at her and went back to his dinner. 

“Few months, huh, kid?” Mickey asked, also looking at Yevgeny, who shrank noticeably in his chair. Mickey smiled at his son - and perhaps to the Ponomarenkos, the expression looked genuine; Ian and Yevgeny, though - they could see the tension in his jaw, the warning in his eyes. The silent promise of ‘ _ When this house is free of strangers, we need to have a talk. _ ’ 

For the duration of the dinner, Ian and Mrs. Ponomarenko, as well as the eldest daughter were the ones who tried to hold some small talk in order to lighten the air somewhat - Ian’s previous laughter had helped somewhat, but it still wasn’t a natural energy within the dining room. Mickey was still staring Ivan down, eyes black, Ivan was clearly uncomfortable, and Yevgeny and Sasha both seemed to wish they were somewhere else - anywhere else. 

A part of Ian was growing warmer to the idea of Yevgeny and Sasha, though - she seemed sweet, and she was cute, too; of course to Ian, she was cute in the same way a baby, or a puppy was cute, but he saw the way Yevgeny’s cheeks flushed every time the two would make eye contact. Perhaps the kids having a relationship - granted he, Mickey, and Sasha’s parents could set some rules - wasn’t such a bad idea. 

“I’m gonna have a smoke outside,” Ian said once the majority of the food had disappeared from the table, down into their stomachs. “Why don’t you come with me?” He asked, placing a hand onto Ivan’s shoulder on his way past his chair. It wasn’t a friendly gesture, his grip way too firm. Truthfully, the only reason he was about to go have a chat with him was because he knew that if he didn’t - Mickey would. And Ian wasn’t so sure that Ivan would end up surviving that. 

“Yevy,” Ian called, unable to stop himself from using the name that Yevgeny had grown to despise (at least in the presence of company), “You and Sasha can go in the family room. No where that has a door, you hear me?” He took Yevgeny’s groan as answer enough. 

“Gonna go lay some ground rules down when it comes to our kid,” Ian whispered against Mickey’s temple, who still sat and idly picked at his meal. “Try not to scare the Missus too bad.” Mickey answered with a grin and an eye roll, and Ian started to believe that his family would never verbally answer him again. 

Ian made a detour to his and Mickey’s office, swiping a box of cigars from his desk drawer. The conversation he was about to have would be fully awful, but maybe the comforting scent of vanilla-tinged tobacco could make it marginally better. Ian stepped out onto the back deck, pulling out a cigar and lighting it, before offering one to Ivan. He took it gratefully, and didn’t shy away when Ian held out his flaming lighter to the tip. 

Ian took a few puffs, rolling the smoke around on his tongue as he looked up to the stars, quiet and contemplative. Ivan didn’t have the balls to initiate any talking, so Ian let the heavy silence settle over them- but soon he cleared his throat and stood up straighter. 

“Sasha’s a sweet kid,” Ian said conversationally.

“She is,” her father agreed, looking still a bit nervous. 

“This is the part where you tell me my son’s a sweet kid, too,” he motioned with his hand as if it were obvious, keeping his face void of any emotion, at least until Ivan sputtered and stammered around the cigar, and Ian thought his heart really might give out. “Relax,” he chuckled. “I’m fucking with you. He ain’t sweet.” 

Ivan didn’t say anything, choosing instead to look at Ian curiously as he shifted from foot to foot. 

“He’s a good kid, though. He cares about a lot of shit. You know he feeds the stray cats every night? Bends over backwards to help his mom with anything she asks for. Stays late at school to help tutor the other kids in math...” 

“No, I didn’t know that,” Ivan said quietly, and Ian apprised him through the waft of smoke spiraling in front of his eyes. 

“You wouldn’t have. Because he doesn’t brag. Because he’s a good man, and he doesn’t need to prove it to anyone, least of all- you.” 

“Ian, I didn’t mean for- I didn’t know.” 

“No, I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m telling you,” Ian shrugged, leaning back against the deck railing. “Look, I get Sasha’s your baby. Yevgeny’s my baby, too. And I won’t step in the way of you raising your girl how you see fit. That’s your business. You don’t wanna let her see Yev, I can’t do shit to stop that. But Yevgeny? He is my business. And if you choose to let your girl hang around him, he better never come home and say you treated him with anything but respect, you hear me?” He waited for a nod of understanding. “We have to have this conversation again, it’s not gonna be me out here. It’s gonna be Mikhailo. And I think you know that it’d go down a lot different than this one, don’t you?” 

He got another nod, one that was framed by wide eyes and an open mouth, and Ian stepped forward with a grin, patting at Ivan’s face with a cupped hand. 

“Yevgeny does anything you think is too forward, you let me know and I’ll handle him. Your girl comes ‘round here and I promise they’ll be supervised. I’ll make sure my kid’s a gentleman. You make sure you’re one, too.”

“I uh… I will,” Ivan said with a nod, clearly forcing the words out of his throat despite the way he feared Ian. Ian had to admit it pleased him a bit - to know that he could make people fear him the same way that they feared Mickey - even if they didn’t fear him to quite the same degree. 

“Good,” Ian gave him a nod, and then turned to look into the distance as he took another puff of the cigar, letting the heavy silence hang in between them, using it purely as a power move. 

The rest of the night wasn’t any less tense. Not even after the Ponomarenkos left, because then it was time to do the dishes. Yevgeny asked if he could go to his room, but Mickey told him to help clean up - he didn’t follow that up with ‘ _ we need to talk _ ’ although Ian and Yevgeny both heard the silent statement. 

Ian, nor Mickey were in any rush; Mickey took his time, scrubbing every dish and piece of silverware clean, while Ian made extra sure that they were all exceptionally dry. By the time the kitchen and the dining room were both immaculate, they could both see the tension, irritation and slight nervousness on their sons’ face. 

“Sit down,” Ian finally said, drying his hands, as he nodded to the kitchen island. Yevgeny sighed, jumping up on one of the barstools, as Ian and Mickey stayed standing, Ian placing his palms against the top of the counter, Mickey crossing his arms over his chest. Ian looked over at him, to find his eyes already on him; they exchanged a few, silent questions and answers - the kind of telepathic communication that Yevgeny despised. 

Then Mickey sighed, and turned his head back to look at Yevgeny. 

“This ain’t about you going steady with someone,” he began. 

“I know, it’s about me getting picked up - “

“No,” Ian cut him off, annoyed creases appearing in his forehead. “Yeah, we’re pissed about that shit, but this ain’t…” Ian sighed, trailing off as he looked back to Mickey, silently asking him to take over. 

“It’s about you not telling us,” Mickey explained. “You shoulda told us you liked her, shoulda told us you were goin’ steady, shoulda told us her pops was a piece of shit and wasn’t treating you -” 

“Mick,” Ian said, hand on his shoulder. Mickey looked at him, swallowed, and took a breath before he turned his attention back to Yevgeny. “It’s about you not trusting us.” 

“I do trust you,” Yevgeny disagreed. “I do, I just…” 

“Just what?” Ian asked. “What’s the problem?” 

“I just- look it’s different for me, okay? I can’t come to you with this stuff, because you don’t understand it!” Yevgeny sighed dramatically, limbs flailing as he fell back into his seat. “I have to work twice as hard to get people to respect me,” He muttered, picking at an invisible thread on his shirt. 

“Yev,” Mickey shook his head, “you have to work for respect ‘cause you’re a kid. No one’s gonna take you seriously when you’re only fifteen. And knocking off a s-,” 

“No,” Yevgeny interrupted, “my age doesn’t have anything to do with it. God, don’t you get it? Ivan doesn’t want me with Sasha, and no one fucking takes me seriously because...” he trailed off, not meeting their eyes, and Ian watched as his jaw flexed and the newish protrusion of his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

“Because what, Yevgeny?” Mickey asked, his voice taking on a harder tone. His fingers flexed below the table, and Ian only caught it from the corner of his eye because his skin was turning pressure white and his leg started to shake with agitation. 

And Ian knew why. But he prayed he wouldn’t say it. 

_ Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.  _

“...Because you and dad are fags, alright?”

A hush settled over the room- think and heavy like summer air after a storm, one that was strong enough to blow the shingles from the roof and leave the car with dents from hail. Ian felt the words swirl on his blood. He knew it was what he was going to say. Could feel it in his guts. He just wished he hadn’t. 

“And that’s how you feel about me and your dad?” Mickey finally broke the silence, the lock in his jaw coating his words in a hard, barbed edge, spoken through gritted teeth. Ian reached for his hand, to try and smooth away the clenched fist, provide him some sort of comfort. To Mickey. To himself. “That we’re just a couple’a fags?” 

Ian had learned years and years before that Yevgeny and Mickey had many similarities. They both had stunningly beautiful blue eyes. They both talked with their mouths full at the dinner table. They both laughed almost dramatically loud at Tom and Jerry. They both had a mean temper. And they both were unflinchingly set in their ways- hard headed to a fault. 

So it wasn’t a surprise, not really, that Yevgeny tipped his chin up and gave a shrug, but didn’t say anything else. He’d said his piece, and apparently he was happy to leave it there. 

“Get out of my sight,” Mickey told him lowly- his voice unwavering, but Ian could hear it- he was trying not to lose it. 

“Pops-,” 

“I said get the fuck away from me, Yevgeny!”

Yevgeny flinched, as did Ian, quickly getting up from his seat and making a real for the stairs. The sound of his feet moving faded quickly, only to be followed by the slam of his bedroom door, and soon after that, Mickey’s stuttered breathing. 

“What can I do?” Ian whispered, leaning in and laying his head on Mickey’s shoulder, his arm coming up around his back to hold him tight. 

“Can I just- I just need a minute alone, okay? I’m gonna, gonna go outside.” Years ago, Ian would have fought it. Would have protested and demanded that Mickey stay right next to him so that they could be miserable together. So that Ian could talk his ear off and demand that they came to an agreement right then and there. But he’d grown. And so had Mickey. “I love you Ian,” he said as he stood, kissing the top of Ian’s head. “I just need some time.” 

Ian sighed as he watched his husband walk out through the kitchen’s backdoor, letting it slam, the sound an echo of the way Yevgeny’s bedroom door had done, just a minute before. 

Ian let his eyes wander towards the bottles of booze on the counter, but he walked out into the living room without reaching for one; Lip had had some issues with controlling his alcohol consumption, and although Ian hadn’t - he probably shouldn’t be reaching for the stuff when he was upset. He had a feeling that was how it started. 

Instead he sank down on the sofa, staring at the black, solid television screen as he perched his elbow on the armrest, leaning his temple in his palm, fingers slipping through the hair that he should probably cut soon. 

It wasn’t that Ian was worried about Yevgeny - he wasn’t all too worried that he would grow up to be like Terry, or Mickey’s long lost, third brother that no one spoke of - but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. In a way, it threw him off - he had had countless words thrown his way his entire life - he was never bothered. But the fact that it was Yevgeny - the fact that it was the little boy who used to bounce on the floor, and say ‘Ian! Ian!’ as soon as he saw him? It hurt. It did. 

God, why couldn’t kids stay babies forever? Ian would be more than happy to live out the rest of his and Mickey’s life with a son who was eternally four or five years old. Alas, life didn’t work that way, did it? Instead they grew up, they met the world, and the world hardened them. 

Before Ian’s thoughts could get any darker, he pushed himself to stand up. He walked over to the window, to see Mickey on the porch, smoking what had to be his third or fourth cigarette. Ian wanted nothing more than to walk out there and sit next to him - lean his head on his shoulder; they didn’t even have to talk. But Ian knew that Mickey didn’t need that right now. 

So instead Ian turned around, and before he could think better of it, he made his way up the staircase and towards Yevgeny’s room. He gave the door a solid two or three knocks, but he didn’t bother waiting for an invitation before he opened it, leaning in the doorway as he looked into the room - the place seeming cold and empty without the various instruments, television, and stacks of comic books. 

“Having fun?” Ian questioned. Yevgeny was laying back in the middle of his bed, on top of his covers, staring up into the ceiling as his fingers drummed a rhythm on his abdomen. 

“It’s a fucking bash up here,” he said, voice flat, not bothering to turn to look at his dad. Ian rolled his eyes, turning to walk away. “Wait.” 

He stopped, of course he did, and turned around to see Yevgeny sitting up and pulling his knees to his chest. To his credit, he did look sorry. His shoulders hunched and his head hung limply against his knees. 

Ian took it as a sign that Yevgeny was giving him room on his bed, so he took it, sitting at the foot and crossing his ankle over the opposite knee. 

“I’m sorry, dad. I didn’t- it’s just- well, people say-,” he finally let out a sigh, deflating with the weight of. It knowing what to say or how to make it better. Ian could sympathize. He might not have been Yevgeny’s biological father, but he thought Yevgeny probably got his inability to find the right words from him. 

“I don’t think it’s me that you need to say sorry to, kid.” 

“Pops is never gonna wanna talk to me again, is he?” 

“Yevgeny,” Ian breathed, battling a stinging burn in his eyes, “Your dad loves you so much. Nothing you could do or say would ever stop that.” Yevgeny let out a breath of relief, eyes sparkling with hope. “But you hurt him pretty bad. You think we don’t know we’re fags and what that means for you? We know we made it harder for you. But we didn’t do it to spite you.” 

“Dad, don’t say that,” Yevgeny sniffled, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “You’re not... you’re not f...ags. That’s- it’s a shitty word. And I never should have said it. Who cares if it makes it harder for me? I got to have you as my dad. I wouldn’t have gotten that if dad wasn’t...” 

Ian stopped fighting the tears and let out an ugly snort. He opened his arms and Yevgeny went to him quickly, wrapping himself around Ian tightly and trying to steady his breathing. 

“Love you, Yevy,” he told him, and he’d never meant it more. 

“Love you, dad.” 

“Alright, alright,” Ian chuckled wetly, “enough of this sappy shit, huh? But I think you gotta go apologize to Pops. But I’ll go talk to him first, okay?” He got up from the bed, starting to walk out of Yevgeny’s room before he stopped and turned around. “Can you come down in fifteen minutes?” That should give him just enough time to convince Mickey to listen to their son’s apology. Yevgeny nodded, and Ian set off, making his way down the stairs; on the way, he looked into Mickey’s office, and the dining room just in case, but of course he knew that Mickey wouldn’t have moved. 

When Ian made it to the kitchen, he saw him through the window in the backdoor - he had moved from the chair, and was standing, leaning over the railing, a cloud of smoke surrounding him. Ian ran a hand through the hair on top of his head, and then quietly made his way out. 

“Still wanna be alone?” He questioned; Mickey didn’t turn around, but he shook his head slightly. Ian took that as sign enough that he was allowed to make his way over and wrap his arms around his neck, resting his chin atop his husband’s head. Mickey continued sucking down the nicotine like his life depended on it, and didn’t return the affection in any particular noticeable way, although Ian felt the way his weight relied slightly on the wall that was his chest, and he noticed the way his breathing slowed down, evened out. 

It was silent for a while. A good couple of minutes. Then Mickey stubbed out the cigarette, and he sighed, bringing a hand to Ian’s wrist. 

“D’we fail?” 

“No,” Ian whispered immediately, voice secure. “No, we didn’t fail. He wants to apologize to you.” 

“Don’t wanna listen,” Mickey said, and Ian sighed; he knew that Mickey wasn’t acting like this because he wanted to punish Yevgeny. By now, Ian knew him more than well enough to know that he was worried that he would end up saying something he would regret, and they would both end up hurting each other even more. 

“Mick,” Ian said. “‘Member what we said about not taking us away? Gotta, you know… gotta be there, gotta let him talk. Even if it ends in a screaming match, Mick - let’s not… let’s not just shut him out, okay?”

"Just- never thought he'd say that to me. To us. Y'know? I've heard it my whole life, even from people who didn't know... but coming from him? I dunno, man, just hurts on a whole new level, I guess."

“He’s a kid,” Ian leveled, “he’s gonna day and do stupid shit. And we’re allowed to be mad at him. But we aren’t allowed to give up on him, Mick. He’s our baby.” 

Mickey let out a breath through his nose, turning back to the open back yard, tense and angry, sure, but maybe, maybe Ian saw his shoulders drop just a little. He took it as a good sign. 

“Yev’s gonna come down in a few minutes. He wants to talk to you. Can you listen to him?” 

Mickey fixes him with a side eye and bit at his lip with a shrug. “You ain’t gonna let me off if I don’t, are you?” 

“No,” Ian said with a grin, and he was infinitely grateful when Mickey gave his own quirk of his lips back. “Just hear him out. He’s kicking his own ass right now, trust me.” 

Yevgeny came out not long after, disturbing the silence that Ian and Mickey created for themselves, comfortable on the surface- just the soft lighting of the moon and singing from the crickets surrounding them. At least until the back door opened and shut back gently, leaving a teenage boy with his hands behind his back and his eyes cast at the ground standing in front of it.

“Can we talk, Pops?” He asked quietly, and Ian gave Mickey’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and a little push. Mickey gave an audible sigh, and a weak gesture for Yevgeny to come closer. He took a few steps forwards; Ian sat down on one of the patio chairs, hoping to start a chain of Mickey and Yevgeny doing the same; thankfully, it worked, and the air in between the three seemed to let go of some of the tension. Some of it. Although Mickey crossed his arms, and although Ian was somewhat behind him, he had a feeling he was raising his brows, silently telling his son that he wasn’t going to be the one to start this conversation as he wasn’t the one to have messed up. It was fair enough, in Ian’s mind. “I’m sorry,” Yevgeny finally said, sounding smaller than Ian had ever heard him. “I shouldn’t have said that - any of it.” 

“Damn fucking right you shouldn’t have.”

“Mick…” Ian warned, earning a glare from his husband. Not necessarily an angry glare, though - not completely. It was more of a glare that said ‘ _ I know. You’re right. But I wish you weren’t. _ ’ 

“Think I listen too much to the shit other people say, it shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter,” Yevgeny clarified. “You’re happy, you love each other, and you’re - you’re both - the best dads I could have asked for, I shouldn’t have said any of that shit, none of it. And I didn’t mean it.” 

“Didn’t you?” Mickey asked. 

“Mick.” Ian’s warning was harder now. More exasperated. 

“No. I didn’t,” Yevgeny shook his head constantly for what had to be over thirty seconds. “I would never actually feel like that, I just - I felt upset, and, and…”

“You said shit you didn’t mean,” Ian said softly, starting to find it difficult to see his son so upset, no matter what he said or did. 

“I said shit I didn’t mean,” Yevgeny repeated earnestly, hands tangling in his lap, fingers clawing at each other in nervous waves. “Pops-,” he sighed, “Dad, I love you,” he told Mickey, calling him dad despite not having done it since he was smaller than Ian’s hip. “And I love your husband, too,” he said, giving Ian a glance from the corner of his eye. “So much so that I claim him as my dad, too. I’m not- I don’t think less of you ‘cause of it. Mostly I’m just happy that I got a good family out of it. And I’m real sorry I hurt your’s and dad’s feelings. I won’t say that shit again. Honest.” 

Mickey eyed him warily, though it didn’t last long. Soon enough his bottom lip was freed from his teeth, leaving behind angry red indentations, and his hands went up to wipe away at invisible tears before he nodded and held his arms out at his sides; and invitation which Yevgeny accepted eagerly. He hugged his father for only a moment, deciding that it wasn’t enough and holding out an arm for Ian to join, looking expectant and pleading. Ian couldn’t have sat still even if he’d wanted to. 

Feeling his family wrapped up right in his arms, the soft sniffles coming from every which direction, he felt at home.


	29. twenty nine

Ian felt his blood rushing as he marched through the basement, entering the office, and digging through several drawers before he found what he was looking for. 

“How you wanna handle this?” Mickey asked, right behind him, fuming just as much, his hand already curled around his own revolver as Ian loaded his. “Let’s force ‘em into the cars, have Iggy handle it?” 

To be fair, that was the way they usually handled rats within the family - that part hadn’t hardly changed. Although, they hadn’t had them in years - and when they did have them, usually they were soldiers, or even associates. The thought of Kristiyan betraying them - one of the men closest to them; a man who knew the ins and outs of the family, a man who had been a made man since before Ian came along… a man who had babysat Yevgeny once upon a time... Ian hadn’t felt this kind of anger in years, and it only took one look at Mickey to realize that he felt the same kind of burn in his veins. 

“Mick, do you really wanna let some soldier do this? це особисте. куля в голові недостатньо хороша. це має бути наша куля,” Ian spoke perfectly. ( _ This is personal. A bullet to the head isn’t good enough. It needs to be our bullet. _ )

“ти маєш рацію” Mickey gave him a nod. ( _ You’re right. _ ) 

Ian and Mickey exited the office, weapons in hand, as they let Iggy’s men march Kristiyan into the darkness of the night, and into the car. 

“ми будемо відразу за вами на іншій машині. нічого не робити без нас. ми будемо тими, хто закінчить його жалюгідне життя,” Mickey said smoothly; confidently. ( _ We will be right behind you in another car. Do nothing without us. We will be the ones to end his miserable life. _ )

“так, сер,” the man right below Iggy nodded, before following Kristiyan into the backseat, pulling the car door shut. ( _ Yes, sir. _ ) 

The car disappeared down the street, and Ian and Mickey got their own, following the black Chevrolet C10 towards the parking lot that was nowadays known as ‘ _ місце смерті _ ’. The place of death. 

As Mickey drove, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. After nearly fourteen years together, and eight years of marriage - they were one. They knew exactly what needed to be said and what didn’t. When Mickey took one hand off the wheel and placed it on Ian’s thigh, Ian merely brought it up to his lips, giving his knuckles a playful bite. ‘ _ Let’s do this. _ ’ Mickey huffed in amusement, and squeezed Ian’s fingers. ‘ _ Yeah. Let’s do this. _ ’ 

The lot was on the outskirts of town; a decent drive away from the hustle and bustle of urban living, desolate and unkempt. Weeds grew up from the cracks in the pavement, it was so long forgotten, having housed what Ian remembered to be a slaughter house when he was a kid- and, if that wasn’t some sort of cosmic irony, he didn’t know what was. 

Mickey pulled in smoothly and cut the engine, looking every bit of calm and professional as he rolled the key back in the ignition and drowned the sounds of the rumbling engine. He gave Ian another look, a smirk, maybe- something that set his eyes twinkling in the faded lights coming from the other car; parking in front of them with the headlights shining on the slumped overhead figure of Kristiyan. 

“Not a favorite part of my job,” Mickey mentioned off handedly, and Ian agreed in theory- but things needed to be done, and there wasn’t any sense in fighting against them. 

“Mine either. Lucky for us, we don’t really gotta do it. You just snap your fingers and someone else’ll do it for you,” he shrugged, long since being over wincing and whining about something he couldn’t control. “S’go get this over with, boss,” Ian grinned menacingly. “Wanna get home in time to watch the news.” 

Mickey bit at his cheek but nodded, leaning forward for a quick kiss before sliding out of the car with all of the grace he’d always had (Ian attributed this to his lack of long, gangly limbs). Ian followed just a beat after, straightening out his button up when he stood and casually lighting a cigarette. 

Mickey nodded to each and everyone of his men that greeted him, cool and commanding, even as Kristiyan set about groveling at his feet. Mickey didn’t listen, or at least, he didn’t look like he was listening. To the untrained eye, he’d look like he didn’t care what was happening; his shoulders held back, professional but relaxed, and his fingers hung limply at his sides. But his jaw was fixed, and Ian knew he hated this. 

“Mikhailo, please,” Ian heard when he stepped up beside Mickey, peering down through his lashes at the man on his knees in front of them. “They said they’d take my wife in. Take my boy away. I had to. I had to!” 

Mickey let out a huff of air through his nose as he shook his head, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks with perceived disinterest. 

“Sorry you felt you were backed into a corner,” he told Kristiyan smoothly, quietly. And then, louder, much louder, “Fucking shame you didn’t think of my family. My boy. My husband. All’a these men and their families,” he shouted, gesturing around at the small crowd of Mickey’s men. “We got rules, you fuckwit. And what’s number one? Huh?” 

Kristiyan stayed quiet for a beat, eyes falling to the pebbled and broken ground beneath him. “No cops,” he said lowly, voice wavering just as expected. 

“No. Fucking. Cops,” Mickey agreed, beginning to sound like a caged animal, wild and in need of release. “Because cops tend to put a bit of a wrench into our operation, yeah? And yours, clearly - ‘cause you’re both rats,” Mickey said, bright smile on his face that could possibly be read as genuine from an outside perspective - not to the men gathered around him now, though. They all knew him too well. Could see the fire in his eyes, the anger. 

“My family,” Kristiyan said, closing his eyes as one of Iggy’s men pressed the mouth of the revolver to his temple. 

“Yeah, see we cease to give a shit about your family when you betray us,” Mickey said.

It wasn’t completely true. Ian and Mickey always had one of the associates throw some crumbs the rats’ families’ way. It was never their fault. But no rats could ever know about that. It would bring them peace in their final moments. Something they didn’t deserve. 

“Don’t pout, sunshine,” Ian heard himself say, as he stepped closer, hearing his husband give a chuckle. “You knew what was gonna happen, the only person to blame is yourself.” A few of the soldiers chuckled as well, and Kristiyan gave a mumble, looking anywhere but up at his bosses.

“I’m sorry, what the fuck was that?” Mickey asked, voice tense as he stepped past Ian, taking his own revolver out of the waistband of his slacks, pointing it to Kristiyan’s forehead. Iggy’s soldier kept his at his temple, effectively stilling Kristiyan’s movements completely. “Say it. Loud,” Mickey encouraged, voice practically booming across the parking lot. 

“Said…” Kristyan mumbled. “Said you’re fags,” he repeated, not nearly as loud as Mickey had commanded, but loud enough for the words to be heard, knowing that he couldn’t obey an order, even in his final moments. Mickey chuckled, keeping his revolver pressed to his forehead, turning to look at Ian. 

“You hear this shit?” Ian shrugged at that. 

“Sounds like a cocksucker in denial to me,” Ian said. “Let’s see what you got.” 

Mickey hummed in agreement, taking a step closer, and moving the weapon from Kristiyan’s forehead to his lips. Kristiyan closed his eyes as some laughter rang throughout the small crowd, enjoying the humiliation. 

“Go on,” Mickey said. “Either you suck it off and we blow your brains out, or you don’t suck it off, and we blow your brains out anyway. Along with that pretty wifey of yours,” Mickey lied, raising an eyebrow. 

Kristiyan seemed to take a deep breath, keeping his eyes closed, as he parted his lips, accepting the weapon into his mouth, slowly starting to move his head back and forth. 

“Think if that was a cock, it’d do shit?” Ian asked. “More.” 

The amusement built up among the crowd of soldiers and capos, everyone laughing now, as Kristiyan picked up the pace, and Mickey grabbed the back of his head, keeping the weapon still as he forced his head back and forth. 

“Let’s see you unload in his mouth,” Ian said, everyone laughing, including Mickey. Mickey formed a tighter grip on Kristiyan’s hair, giving his head a few more tugs before stopping, weapon deep in his throat. 

Then a gunshot rang, and Kristyan’s body fell to the ground. A few chuckles rang again, and Iggy’s soldiers immediately took care of the body. Ian walked right over to Mickey and caught him by his waist, planting a deep kiss to his lips, the two letting it turn into a brief makeout session before they gathered themselves, and got back into the car. 

“Ain’t every day you get to off such a high up rat, man. Should celebrate,” Mickey said, clearly still riding the high. Ian laughed in agreement. Although as they started to drive away from the parking lot, Ian started to feel a lump forming in his throat. 

  
  


A certain level of acceptance, of- of malleability, was demanded of Ian. From the moment Mickey shot into his life, literally, there were expectations set, up expectations that Ian had never thought himself capable of achieving- and yet, decades later, he sat in the passenger side of his husband's car, a warm, calloused hand in his own, and he found himself nodding. 

Though his smile wasn’t exactly- genuine, for lack of a better word, it wasn’t entirely painted on against muscles that declared themselves unfit and unwilling- he could still find it in himself to be happy if Mickey were happy. Take pleasure in his accomplishments, even if he had to remove himself from their entirety. 

If he allowed himself to think too much, would he... would he still find himself staring lovingly across the bench seat? Would he wake up happily in the morning to coffee and waffles? Maybe. But. A bigger part of him worried that- maybe not. But he signed himself up for that, that part of his life, with those people. He chose to sit and watch. To be an accomplice. To act. 

And if he let himself think about  _ that _ , he might not have ever been able to come back from it. So he didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself fall into that hold of despair. To let himself see Mickey in that light. 

Because Mickey wasn’t that person. Not really. Memories of him buying and teaching Yevgeny to play guitar, of Mickey laughing as they got caught in a rainstorm, of Mickey kissing at the scratched and weathered ring on his finger, those memories overshadowed all else. Those are what he held on to. So. 

“What’d you have in mind?” Ian asked salaciously, running the fingers from his right hand against his left- the one that was braided together with Mickey’s. 

Mickey sent him a darkened gaze; a grin that bared the sharp points of his teeth and made the lines against his eyes go deeper, sending a heated pool of, of something heady to Ian’s belly and the tips of his thighs. 

“Gotta get you home to watch the news,” Mickey teased, noticing Ian’s responsiveness. 

“Fuck you,” Ian laughed rolling his eyes and pinching at the back of Mickey’s hand. 

“Kinda thinkin’ that’s the point, ain’t it, Fish? Haven’t been fucked in the back seat in a good while. You feeling adventurous?”

“Always,” Ian was quick to agree, bringing their hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the back of Mickey’s. “Pull over,” he mumbled against the soft skin before digging his teeth into it. Mickey hummed, and as he found a solitary gravel road, leading them off the bright highway and into the darkness of the woods, Ian continued to press biting kisses to Mickey’s hand and arm, not stopping until Mickey turned the key in the ignition, the engine shutting off. 

It was dark enough that they couldn’t see each other at all now, but it didn’t matter; they didn’t need to. In fact, there was something comforting about being in the middle of nowhere, unable to see anything, yet able to feel each other, smell each other. Hear each other. 

“C’mere,” Mickey breathed, maneuvering himself into the backseat, hands holding onto the collar of Ian’s shirt, tugging him along, until he was laying down on top of him, Mickey’s fingers tugging at Ian’s shirt and slacks, Mickey’s lips immediately claiming Ian’s; needy. “Fuckin’ need you,” Mickey said into Ian’s mouth; something that wasn’t all too common. His voice was full of want, yet thin somehow - usually he would be a lot more bossy, even when they were doing the whole roleplay thing. 

Despite that - or perhaps because of that - Ian felt himself melt, and mold to Mickey’s wants and needs. 

“You have me,” Ian promised, tugging Mickey’s slacks down, his own soon following. “You have me,” he said again, Mickey responding with a sound somewhere in between a hum and a whine, as he shoved his tongue into Ian’s mouth, teeth scratching his upper lip. 

In lack of lube, Ian brought his hand up to their mouths, placing his fingers in between their tongues until they were covered in saliva; he brought them back down, Mickey kicking his shoes and pants off so that he could bring his knees up, giving Ian a better angle. 

Ian felt, more than he could see, Mickey’s jaw go slack as he let his fingers explore. He smiled against Mickey’s lips, hoping that he could feel it just as much as he did- letting himself get lost in the feel of Mickey’s wanting body beneath him, drowning out the flash of light from the barrel of Mickey’s gun and the sounds of a lifeless body slumping against the pavement. 

Ian shuddered and shook his head, as if it were enough to cast aside fowl memories, and pushed his finger in fractionally deeper, concentrating (or at least trying to) only on the positives; the way Mickey’s breath hitched, the way his fingers dig into Ian’s shoulders, the way his voice went high and tight and his lips drilled against Ian’s. 

“Just, Ian,” Mickey panted, “h-hold me or some shit, man. Need, fuck I need more of you.” 

Ian didn’t think their angle was conducive to- holding- but he did his best, anyway. He draped himself along Mickey’s chest and buried his face against the sharp jut of a collar bone, still mindful of the way his fingers twitched and swirled, doing his best not to hurt. Mickey’s arms and legs wrapped tighter around him, cutting off the small amount of mobility he still held, breath squeaking and wheezing out like it might be his last. 

“More, yeah, more,” Mickey pleaded, and Ian took it as his cue to add a second digit, pairing it off with the first and sliding it along smoothly. 

“No, not like...” Mickey sighed, but cut himself off when Ian gave a crook of his wrist. “Not like that,” he said again, and Ian tried again to readjust himself, pulling away only to be yanked back in against Mickey’s throat. “I just need more.” 

“I’m trying, but-,” 

“Please, baby. Please give me more,” Mickey let out in a strangled voice- he sounded pitiful and strained and- Ian pulled away again. 

“Mick?” He asked carefully, never having been called  _ baby _ in the entirety of their relationship. “Are you oka-,” 

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey sighed, dislodging Ian from between his knees and rustling around in the quiet darkness. “If you can’t fucking do it, then I will.”

“Okay, okay,” Ian breathed, struggling against Mickey’s movements until he had him pinned down again, his breath fanning across his face, unable to see a single thing other than pure black; though he could picture the knitted brows, and the pouting lips. “I’ll do it, I’ll give you whatever you want, Mick, you know that, just tell me…” Ian sighed, nose brushing Mickey’s, voice half frustration and half affection. “What do you need?” 

A few times, during the first year or so of their relationship, Ian had asked Mickey that question. Since then, he had never really needed to. He had always known. But there was something different about Mickey tonight. 

“Just - fuckin’ - “ Mickey grunted, annoyance clear in the sound as he wrapped his arms around Ian’s body, forcing him to place all of his weight on top of his smaller frame, as Mickey pressed his face into the crook of Ian’s neck. “Need all of you.” 

“You have all of me,” Ian promised, unsure of how to handle this side of Mickey. 

“Need more,” Mickey said, clinging to Ian like he only did when Ian was buried deep inside, and they were nearing the edge together - only Ian was not inside of Mickey now. Not a single part of him. Mickey wasn’t clinging to him in the throes of pleasure, he was just… clinging to him. 

“What do you want?” Ian asked, unsure whether he was annoyed with Mickey, or with himself. Mickey huffed, once again unwrapping himself, and pushing Ian up, and around until their positions were switched, and he was sitting on top of Ian. 

“Jesus fuck, I gotta do everything,” Mickey grunted, and although Ian couldn’t see him, he knew exactly what he looked like, sitting on top of him, placing his hand behind himself, so that he could sink down onto them and get himself ready, and it made Ian’s lips part, as he grabbed onto his hips, and let himself get lost in the noises he was making. 

With the lack of light, he let his brain dig up the thousands of memories of what Mickey looked like. Memories of pale skin, and flushed lips; memories of blood - wait. No. No blood. No memories of lips on a gun. Stop. 

“Aye,” he suddenly heard, along with the feeling of something soft brushing past his lips, thighs settling on either side of his chest. “Go on,” Mickey said, and Ian parted his lips, blocking out the memory of the last time his husband had said those words, less than an hour ago. 

Ian was good at this - they both were. Not only was Ian good at sucking cock, but he was exceptionally good at sucking Mickey’s cock - knew exactly what to do, where to touch, what motions to make with his tongue. And he liked it, too - he loved making Mickey feel good. So why, for the first time in years - if not ever - did he go through the motions?

Why did he bob his head, twist his tongue, while he wondered when they would move on to the next step. His head wasn’t filled with  _ MickeyMickeyMickey _ . It was filled with blood. Death. Guilt?

“Fuck, get off, get on me,” Mickey cursed, tugging his hair, as they manouvered around until Ian was sitting up in the seat, Mickey in his lap as he sank down onto him. 

Ian just sort of- sort of let him go. Let him push up with his thighs and lower himself back down. He sat back, passive, for maybe the first time. He didn’t offer thrusts of his own, he didn’t offer a helping hand; instead he let his fingers dig into the skin covering Mickey’s pistoling hip bones. He didn’t, well, it wasn’t like he didn’t want Mickey. He always wanted Mickey- but in a very real sense, he was only handing himself over, letting himself be used as a tool for Mickey’s happiness. He wasn’t present. He didn’t have anything to offer, at least not then. 

“Are you gonna- you gonna do anything, Gallagher?” Mickey asked as he slowed, but didn’t still. And Ian thought it was a very good question, one that he, himself, didn’t have the answer to. He didn’t even know what Mickey wanted, what he meant when he asked for more and more, what the pleas that Mickey offered were truly asking for. 

“You just gotta tell me, Mick,” Ian grinned when Mickey switched from bouncing to rolling. “Gotta tell me what you want. How you want me.” 

“No,” Mickey argued, and even in the absence of seeing his face, Ian could tell his words battled through a sneer- lips bared back so that his teeth could show themselves off in a pseudo warning. “That ain’t how this works you fucking- fucking-,” he trailed off, his words coming out in that same, nasty broken sob, and Ian, blessedly, finally caught on. 

He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s back and pulled him to his shoulder, letting Mickey bury his face and mold his body in a form fitting cover. He pulled and pulled as tightly as he could, only allowing for the small expansion of his back as he gulped in air as if there were precious little of it left. 

“S’okay, Mick. It’s alright,” he murmured, letting his lips ghost across the sweat drying at Mickey’s temple. He shifted just enough to let himself fall from Mickey’s body, but otherwise made no move to move him from his lap; a heavy part of his brain telling him that Mickey wouldn’t allow it even if he’d insisted upon it. “I’m here. I’m right here,” Ian grunted as he tightened his hold on Mickey’s body, helping him move. “Baby,” he added through a breath, hoping to lighten the mood a little bit - assuming that Mickey would tell him to fuck off, or slap his bicep. Instead, he felt Mickey’s grip on him grow tighter, as he rode him, abandoning the grinding motion to lift himself up properly, before sinking back down. 

“Kiss me,” Mickey grunted, and Ian unwrapped an arm from around his waist to pry his face out of his neck, attaching their lips; he let Mickey lead, because as much as he tried, he just couldn’t quite replace the image of blood with the feeling of Mickey. Their bodies fit - of course; they always fit - and their minds fit, too - but right now? Ian just… he couldn’t bring himself to get lost the way he always did. “Fuck, let go,” Mickey suddenly stopped his movements and batted his hands away. Ian felt him maneuver himself until he had his hands against the window, back turned to Ian. 

Ian grabbed onto his hips and sank back into him. 

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure how much time passed, how long they fucked for. Ian was behind Mickey, holding onto his hips, his back, tugging his hair. Then Mickey was laying down across the backseat, as Ian fucked into him, face buried in his neck. Then Ian was laying down, and Mickey was on top. At some point they were both lying down, each other’s dicks in their mouths before they got back to the actual fucking, Mickey folded in half, back pressed against the backrest, Ian holding onto his calves as he rocked his lower body, slamming into Mickey. 

It wasn’t unusual for them to go at it like this - go at it for hours - but that usually meant them coming once within that time, usually twice, and when they were younger - sometimes three times. 

The more time that passed, the more Ian felt his muscles grow tired, his dick getting numb. With the lack of lube, neither of them would be very happy in the morning, that was for sure. 

Yet, they were both moaning and grunting enthusiastically - Ian was doing it to try to convince himself that he was into it, and he had known Mickey for too long not to hear the difference in between something real and something fake. 

And before too long, the hot, heavy breath against Ian’s neck, his cheek, his chest- the way Mickey moaned his name and tensed his muscles... they changed. His noises weren’t as high, weren’t as whiny or needy, they just... were. 

“You, uh...” Ian asked, slowing the torturous heave of his hips, taking the respite from moving to gulp in lung fulls of air, further steaming up the already opaque windows. He settled his weight back down, draping himself across Mickey chest to chest, hearing the way Mickey’s heart thudded beneath his ribs. 

“Don’t think this is gonna happen tonight, man,” Mickey sighed, situating himself with a little wobble and bringing his hand up to muss up Ian’s sweat soaked hair. 

“No. Think if I go anymore I’m gonna skin myself,” Ian agreed, closing his eyes and letting himself relax against the heat of Mickey’s body, even if his legs folded beneath him uncomfortably. “Are you okay? That was a lot for, y’know, dry.” 

“Might be in trouble tomorrow,” Mickey answered absently, his ministrations unwavering. 

“And are you okay... otherwise?” Ian questioned delicately, knowing that if Mickey wasn’t ready to talk that he absolutely wouldn’t. And Ian wouldn’t force it. 

“Maybe. I don’t know. Know I wanna get home, though. Get my ass in the bed.” 

“Should probably soak in the tub first,” Ian murmured, trying to keep his eyes open and stave off the sleep his body and mind begged him for. 

“Nah. None of that gay shit tonight.” 

“Mickey,” Ian toned knowingly, if a bit irritated. “The gay shit. Like the gay fucking? You gotta let your muscles unwind. Gotta... I might have hurt you,” his voice came out lowly, an apologetic arm bringing itself up to wrap around Mickey’s back. 

“Who gives a fuck? I’ll live. I asked for it.”

Ian wasn’t happy with that, with Mickey pushing himself too fast, too hard, too anything, but he knew how to pick his battles, and decided not to push his luck- at least until they got back home and Ian could properly pout and make his eyes sparkle in a pleading way. 

The drive home was quiet, save for the gentle rumble of the engine and the bounce of the car’s shocks as it bumped along the road. Mickey drove, despite Ian’s protests, but he kept a palm firmly against Ian’s thigh, letting the warmth it housed soak in through Ian’s trousers and into his skin. He appreciated it, the grounding touch, even as his heart sank further and further each time a street light illuminated Mickey’s frown. 

When Mickey pulled into the driveway, they got out without sharing a word; to any outsider, they would look like they were in the middle of a fight, but Ian knew they were fine. Things were just… weird, for some reason. 

They entered the empty house, and Ian followed Mickey up the stairs; Mickey went into the bathroom, but Ian settled for undressing down to his boxers, and throwing himself back onto the bed, a sigh leaving his lungs at the contact. His muscles were aching - partly because of the two hour fucking session without a satisfying ending, but also because he just felt… strange. Sick, somehow. He didn’t feel like himself, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. 

There was a flush, the sound of the tap running, and being turned off, then Mickey walked back out into the bedroom. Ian had expected him to get in on his own side of the bed, and turn his back to Ian - he did that sometimes, and so did Ian. More often than not, it wasn’t because they were arguing, but because they just sometimes had a need of being alone - even if they were alone, together. 

Instead, though, Mickey without hesitation climbed into the bed on Ian’s side, moving around until he was the human version of Bambi on the ice, starfished across Ian’s frame, his face nuzzling the crook of Ian’s neck. 

It was unexpected, but absolutely not unwelcome. Ian immediately responded, wrapping his arms tightly around Mickey’s frame, tugging him impossibly closer, nosing the hair on his head, inhaling his scent. 

When Ian felt Mickey move his arms, he lifted his head up somewhat, giving him enough space to tuck them under his neck, pulling him even tighter. For a moment, it was as if they were falling from a great height, clinging to each other for dear life. Sometimes it didn’t feel as if that was too far away from the truth. 

Ian felt Mickey nuzzle his nose behind his ear; then there was the gentle touch of a kiss being planted to the skin, and the feeling brought Ian the need to hold onto Mickey even tighter. Perhaps they were falling, but at least they would be going down together. 

\---

Ian wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up, it was still the middle of the night, and the bed was empty. 

Ian grasped at cold, crisp sheets, coming back empty handed and a little desperate; if Mickey wasn’t in bed, nor the room as a whole, it could only mean one thing. Mickey hadn’t slept. Again. 

He stood up and stretched his back, feeling his muscles scream in protest- from his neck down to his calves, everything hurt, over worked and over stretched. His skin felt over sensitive and scratchy as well, only deepening the lines that marred his irrefutable scowl. With one last glance around the empty room, and without bothering to slip any more clothing on, he was through the bedroom door and bounding for the stairs. 

The light hovering over the stove was on, as expected, and the heady scent of strongly brewed coffee mingled with the cool air that wafted past his face as his long legs carried him swiftly into the kitchen. Also as expected, was the darkened silhouette of a body hunched over the breakfast bar, one palm cradling a tensed jaw, the other curled around a mug of steaming liquid. 

“You sleep at all?” Ian asked quietly, thankful that the barstool Mickey sat on didn’t have a back- leaving room for Ian to press his chest against Mickey and wrap his arms around his middle. He dropped a kiss against Mickey’s shoulder, and left his chin propped there just after, leaning his weight against Mickey’s solid form. 

“Little bit.” 

“You awake ‘cause- you have another one?” He didn’t need to specify what he was asking about; Mickey’s nightmares growing not only in intensity, but also in frequency over the last year or two. He looked more and more tired each day, deep purple streaks beneath his eyes blemishing his otherwise pristine porcelain skin. Ian hated it. 

“Yeah,” Mickey answered simply, jostling Ian only enough to pull his mug to his lips and take a sip. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“No,” Mickey replied, far too quickly for Ian’s taste, but was just as quickly amended to, “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

Ian nodded and let go, hearing a little hitch of breath in protest, but he remedied it by sitting just in the next stool over, turned so that his knees could press against Mickey’s outer thigh, and Ian leaned forward so that he could leave his hands there, too. 

“Been told I’m an okay listener a time or two,” Ian reasoned, hoping for at least an upturned tick of Mickey’s lips, but none came and he felt his own features turn down in response. 

“You do alright,” Mickey agreed, taking another sip before setting his cup against the counter top and swiveling in his own seat, one of his legs between Ian’s, the other just on the outside of Ian’s left. 

“So talk to me, then,” Ian nearly begged, hoping he sounded serious, but not overly eager, knowing that it would only turn Mickey off to the conversation as a whole. 

“Dunno what you wanna hear, man.” 

“I wanna hear whatever you wanna tell me, Mick. You know that.”

At that, Mickey looked at him, a beat passing before he moved his eyes to the cup of coffee and took another sip, seemingly readying himself. 

“They ain’t uh… not just ‘bout shit that’s in the past anymore,” he mumbled, placing the cup back down, seemingly very interested in the dark blue paint covering the ceramic. Ian stayed silent, softly moving his thumb back and forth over the fabric of Mickey’s pajama pants; a reminder that he was there; a reminder that Mickey wasn’t alone. 

Ian knew that Mickey had a lot of nightmares where he lived through past experiences all over again; Terry’s demise, the Christmas attack, and the wedding attack; sometimes he would wake up, and cling to Ian, sob into his chest in a way that he would never let himself do unless he really, really needed it. 

“They uh…” Mickey continued. “I keep seeing the future and shit now, man - all the shit that could happen,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“It’s different now, Mick,” Ian said softly. With every year that passed, they gained more and more respect. The men feared them more. Ian wasn’t nearly naive enough to believe that there weren’t people in the family who despised the idea of two men sharing a life, sharing a bed - but regardless of whether those were good men, they were smart ones. And for every single, idiotic man planning an attack, there were ten smarter men to talk him out of it. “I’m fine. We’re fine.” 

“Ain’t just us,” Mickey shook his head, staring into the mug of coffee like it was a piece of art he was desperate to understand. “Keep seeing Yev. A scene like - fuck, a scene like tonight.” His voice broke, as he brought both of his hands to his face. 

“Mick,” Ian said. “He’s our son, he’s our boy, no one would ever do anything - “

“He ain’t on his knees, Fish,” Mickey interrupted, letting his hands fall to the table as he looked at Ian. “Keep him seeing him pulling the trigger.” 

Ian took a moment to let the words sink in. 

“He wouldn’t-,” Ian started, gaping at the thought. Surely not Yevgeny. Not Yevy. He wouldn’t. 

“No?” Mickey scoffed. “What, you think Terry was the first in my line? Get a grip, Fish. Like father like son with Milkovich’s.” Mickey’s head fell back into his palm, his other hand coming up to scratch at the surface of the counter, and he kept his eyes steadily downward, away from Ian. 

“But Yevgeny... he’s... smart. He never would-,” 

“What, and I ain’t?” Mickey asked indignantly, finally looking to Ian with an upturned eyebrow and a scowl painted across his lips. 

“No. I didn’t mean- it’s just that- that Yevgeny has more options than you did. Doesn’t have a dad breathing down his neck to put up or shut up. You raised him right.” 

Mickey shook his head as he chuckled darkly, a wicked crinkle pulling at the edges of his eyes and deepening the shadows across his face. 

“He already did it, man. You’re forgetting we already picked his ass up once. Ain’t nothin’ stopping him from doing it again,” Mickey mumbled into his palm, voice sounding sorrowful. Heavy. Disappointed. Fucking sad. 

“Yeah, but... we set him straight. Set Ivan straight. Him and Sasha are-,” 

“He and Sasha both come from the same type of family. Invested. She doesn’t know any better either, Ian. Neither of them no jack shit outside of this. Kid’s got no fucking hope. And I- fuck, I did that to him.” 

“Mickey-,” 

Ian felt like he was failing as a partner. He didn’t know what to say, how to soothe the hurt. How to make the tears stop or how to make the smile come back. He didn’t know what to say, so he reached out instead, wiping at Mickey’s eyes and cheeks with his thumbs and hoped that there was some way to make it all better.

“Come here,” Ian finally sighed, moving his arm across Mickey’s lap and placing a hand on the side of his thigh, wrapping his other arm around his waist. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey asked, not helping at all. 

“Shut up, come here,” Ian continued, not giving up until Mickey gave in and moved to sit sideways on Ian’s lap, an arm wrapped around his neck. 

With Mickey’s comforting weight finally in his lap, Ian let himself breathe, leaning his chin on his shoulder. 

“We are going to be fine,” Ian told Mickey, taking his time with each syllable. Making each one steady and sure, hoping that Mickey could feel the promise that Ian was making. “All of us.” 

He could feel Mickey’s chest expanding, probably getting ready to dispute the statement, but just as quickly, he seemed to change his mind, and the weight of his head was added to the top of Ian’s, his fingers drawing shapes on the freckled skin of his shoulder. 

“Just don’t want him makin’ all the same mistakes I did.” 

“I know,” Ian said, feeling his throat tighten. “He’s a better person than we are.” 

“You don’t know that,” Mickey said. “Fuck,” he cursed, then. “I did this to him.”

“Stop,” Ian asked of him, shaking his head, Mickey’s body following with the movement. “You’re an amazing dad, Mickey - hey...” Ian said suddenly, a smile making its way onto his face as he picked his head up, forcing Mickey to do the same, their eyes meeting in the dimly lit kitchen. “‘Member that day in the park? First time I met Yev?” 

Mickey seemed to think for a beat - it had been over a decade, after all, but eventually he nodded. 

“I didn’t really let myself think too much about you back then, but I fucking blown away by how, just...” Ian trailed off, unable to find the words. “That little boy loved you. So fucking much,” he finally settled for. “And he’s taller now, knows how to say his Rs, and knows how to drive, but you know what? That boy’s still in there. And you were an amazing dad back then, and you’re an amazing dad now.”

Mickey stayed quiet for a long while, breathing against Ian’s neck as Ian ran rhythmic circles across the expanse of Mickey’s back. His cheek rested against the top of Mickey’s head, where even though his hair was starting to thin, it still smelled like green apples, and Ian found it quite soothing. 

“You don’t think I ruined him?” Mickey asked finally, holding his breath and waiting for his answer, even if there wasn’t any way in hell that Ian could say anything disparaging.

“Nah. I didn’t give you a chance to,” Ian shrugged teasingly. “I got to him when he was four. Straightened him right out.” 

Mickey huffed and sent an easy punch to Ian’s chest before settling back down with a quiet chuckle. 

“You didn’t ruin him, Mick,” Ian whispered. “Didn’t ruin anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” 


End file.
